


This is a Gift

by Drownedinlight



Series: Lionhearted Girl [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry Potter, Forced Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-07-25 14:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 91,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drownedinlight/pseuds/Drownedinlight
Summary: Roswitha Artemis Black had gone from orphan to heiress to daughter in remarkably short time frame, like a dream come true. Now starting her first year of Hogwarts, she faces challenges she is certain regular first years don't have to deal with -- like the castle talking to her and demanding she find and evict an artifact deep beneath the stone floors. Or how whispers of another girl, named Heather Potter, stir some strange dream within her.





	1. The Girl on the Corner

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is a fic I've been working on since the start of this year, and thanks to the WIP Big Bang, I'm actually posting book 0/1 now while I work on writing the others (if I hadn't entered the big bang, my perfectionist self would have demanded I wait until the very end to post but meh). I do have some people still helping me beta this as we go on, but it should be fairly minor changes through out -- I definitely let you know if something needs a retcon later on. But I'm pretty proud of this idea as a take on several old tropes. If you'd like, give it a chance, and let me know what you thought. If not, no hard feelings :D 
> 
> Thanks for reading all the same.
> 
> Update: check out this awesome art by Reeby10 over at pillowfort! https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/827684 I couldn't find a great way to insert it (I'm still a little awkward about those things, but I'm learning!)

The girl on the corner looked older than she actually was. Really, she looked as old as she was, which was eight, but when people first saw her they did not immediately think “eight-year-old girl.”

Right now, she stood wearing a handsome, green cape, holding a carpet bag in one hand, and a basket in the other. At first blush, if someone saw her, they might think she was just coming back from shopping for her Christmas dinner. As it was, there were not many people to look at her — in late December, the streets of London were as empty as they ever were. Those who were out and about were running those last minute errands that came with the end of the year, slipping past in their cars, and fading from view within a couple of streetlamps; of course, since people were busy with their errands, so must she be with hers, they would have thought if they were looking.

If they did look at her, they would have thought her to be in her late teens. Something about the neatness of her appearance — the smart, green cloak, and perhaps the way her dark brown hair shone, clean in the winter sun. No one in their early teens, no matter how they tried, might affect such a neat appearance, as there was always some awkwardness that halted them — clear skin or hair lacking at least one greasy spot. And how sophisticated the cloak looked! No, surely, this was someone coming into herself as a woman.

If someone had looked closer, they might have noticed that, even though she was tall for a girl of eight, she was much, much too young in the face to be in her late teens. There was still some baby fat around her cheeks and chin. There was a glow to her face that faded when one got their first pimple. Her eyes — well, if one looked at her eyes, they would have thought they were mistaken in thinking her young. These were still days when children could roam around free, and did in small packs. But her gaze was too focused, too canny. This was not the wandering gaze of a child at play, at want for something to do. She knew where she was going.

Luckily for the girl, no one did notice how young she was. They picked out something about her and convinced themselves she was older and in no need of assistance. Then she was gone from the corner, crossing the street when it was clear of traffic to a row of antique townhomes. She passed by Number 2, Number 4, Number 6, until she came to the lot that appeared to be empty. Anyone who lived on that street always said that Number 12 had not been built because the number was bad luck. Anyone who visited Grimmauld Place must not have known to correct them — it is usually the number 13 which is viewed as bad luck.

Number 12, however, had been built along with the rest in the early nineteenth century with the rest of the row. But townhomes do not just get up and walk away, and there were no counsel records of it being demolished. Therefore, most people believed it had never existed. And it was very fortunate for the girl, who walked right up to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, that no one had been paying attention to her. For when she walked onto what most thought was an empty lot, it would have been the most curious thing to watch her disappear. The girl, unbothered by disappearing from view, took a silver key from her pocket and unlocked the front door.

The girl opened the door, dodged an umbrella stand made to look like a large foot that stood her path. She tried to remember what the goblins had told her. She had to stand firm, tall, and announce in a clear voice, “Hello! My name is Roswitha Artemis Black! I am the daughter of Regulus Arcturus Black II! I have come home.”

When she had done so, Roswitha felt a little silly. The house showed no change — the air remained musty and stale, the ceiling dark and dingy — and after all, it was a house. Since going to the goblins, Roswitha had learned that she was a witch, and indeed, had a wand tucked up her sleeve. The goblins had healed her, and indeed done magic in front of her. Still, talking to a house seemed more like she had no one else to talk to.

Announcing herself did have one pleasant side effect, thought Roswitha. If there were anyone else in the house, surely they would have come at her saying so. The goblins had encouraged her to talk to the house, though, and since Roswitha was alone, it wouldn’t matter if she talked to herself, would it? “Thank you,” she said, running her hand along the wall that led up to the staircase, “for being empty. And for being a house, I guess. I was expecting…”

By what the goblins had told her the house had been completely run down. Roswitha had been expecting to find a ruin. “Well, anyway,” she said aloud. “You’ve far exceeded my expectations.”

Roswitha felt a rush of warmth run through her. Was that the house? Was she just warming up from being out in the snowy winter cold? Did the air smell fresher, somehow? Roswitha couldn’t say for sure — she supposed time alone would tell.

There was a water closet on the ground floor. While it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a while, Roswitha had walked all the way from Diagon Alley; she made due after checking there was nothing crawling around in the toilet.

The rest of the ground floor contained a dining room, and a room just off the entry hall with plush couches and chairs, covered in a layer of dust, and a fireplace on the wall. There was no wood with which to build a fire and no matches with which to start one.

“Still,” said Roswitha aloud, “it’s warm in here, and it looks like the ceiling isn’t leaking anywhere. What a good house you’ve been, waiting for me to come back.”

There was no kitchen, though. Roswitha supposed it must be in the basement. The basket she had found in one of her family vaults kept things fresh and cooled (or good and warmed if that was the case of what you wanted), but it would be nice to have a stove to cook on instead of eating everything raw or trying to cook in a fireplace.

The stairs down to the basement seemed sturdy enough, and Roswitha knew how to cast a light spell with her wand. She tested each board before she put her weight on it, which made things slow going, but she came to the bottom at the end. There was, indeed, a large kitchen in the basement. A door at one end looked as if it lead to a snowy garden, and a long table to eat at. There were empty shelves covered with cobwebs, and a pantry three times the size of her room at the orphanage, and even had a section that was as cold as a refrigerator.

When Roswitha came out of the pantry she started for a moment when she spotted a small creature standing in the middle of the kitchen. Roswitha took a deep breath when she realized it was a house elf. “You frightened me!” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Little one is not supposed to being here,” said the house elf in a gravelly voice.

“Yes I am,” said Roswitha, drawing herself up straight and tall. “I am Roswitha Artemis Black, daughter of Regulus Arcturus Black the second. I’m the last surviving Black and so this is now my home. Who are you?”

The elf’s eyes grew wide. “Kreacher is Kreacher, little Mistress. Kreacher is knowing not to question a mistress, but is little Mistress really being Master Regulus’ daughter?”

“Yes I am,” said Roswitha, calmly. The goblins had told her what to do with any house elves she had encountered. “Will you serve me, Kreacher, as you serve House Black?”

Kreacher puffed up a little. “Kreacher will be serving the little Mistress, as he is serving House Black.”

“I accept your service, Kreacher,” said Roswitha, nodding to him and feeling a smile come across her face. She picked up the basket where she had left it and passed it over to Kreacher. “This has a week’s worth of food in it — I wasn’t sure if anyone would be here to greet me. Can you take care of it?”

Kreacher nodded. “Kreacher is being a butler elf, but he is knowing how to cook and clean as any other elf can.”

Roswitha tilted her head at his statement. “Are there other kinds of elves?”

“There is being all kinds of elves, little Mistress,” said Kreacher, cocking his head at her. His eyes grew wide and searching. “Elves who care for children or gardens or clothes. Is little Mistress wanting other elves besides Kreacher?”

Roswitha considered his proposition for a moment before she spoke. “Well, you seem like a very good elf, Kreacher, but I wasn’t raised knowing what a proper Black would know. I’ll have to figure out what’s right and honourable for the family home.”

Kreacher beamed at her. “It is for little Mistress to be making these decisions. When is little Mistress wanting meals?”

Roswitha thought on this as well before asking for breakfast at seven, luncheon at eleven, tea at three and supper at seven. The four hour blocks would serve well for the activities which the goblins had helped her schedule when she had explained that human children generally do not look after themselves. Goblins, apparently, knew everything that their parents had known, and theirs, and so on — it was a bit of magic that did not translate well into English, other than being written in the blood. Her account managers had grumbled quite a bit, but then acquiesced that human children being helpless and having to learn everything anew made some measure of sense. They then set about getting lessons for her.

Their choice in lessons were a little odd, but given they hadn’t known how humans learned, Roswitha couldn’t fault them for not knowing what children were normally taught in school. Up until now, Roswitha had had classes in English, Maths, Sciences, History, P.E., Arts and Music. The goblins had thought Maths worthwhile and so had set her up with a maths tutor for her age, and they had agreed that P.E. was paramount. They lamented that there was no wizard or muggle who could teach her the sword, but contented themselves with setting Roswitha up at a boxing gym near 12 Grimmauld Place. They had also set her up with tutors for French, Norwegian, and German, as a witch of her standing would need to know several languages, and those would be a good starting point.

As for the other subjects, the goblins had not cared, and so Roswitha would have to study them on her own.

When Roswitha had finished setting a schedule to Kreacher, he asked if she had anything else she needed. “No,” said Roswitha shaking her head. “I’ll pick my own bedroom and unpack, before exploring a little bit.”

Kreacher bowed to her and set out to his own work.

It turned out finding a bedroom was more difficult than Roswitha might have imagined. The house simply had rooms upon rooms — rooms filled with only couches, rooms with couches and musical instruments, rooms with books, but a room that was more library than the rest. There was even another dining room on the second floor. The first bedroom Roswitha found, though, was on the first floor, and she came on it right after she stepped at the top of the stairs. That bedroom, though, was much too large, and much too decorated to really be hers, she thought.

The second floor had another large bedroom, which was less ornately decorated, but the bed was much too large. The third floor, though, had just two bedrooms (it had other rooms, namely what must have been a playroom and a room walled in by glass that looked on to a conservatory that Roswitha had not seen on the ground floor or any other floor so far). One bedroom had pictures of nearly naked women which Roswitha scrunched up her nose at. The other, though, seemed normal. It had a normal bed, a normal desk, and even a bookshelf piled with books. The walls were also papered a pleasing shade of green, and there were two windows on the wall that faced toward the street.

“What a lovely room,” said Roswitha, and she meant it.

She unpacked the clothing she had in the carpet bag, finding that there was a small dressing room off the room that led to a bathroom. Upon finding the bathroom, Roswitha relieved herself, and then went down for luncheon at Kreacher’s direction.

\---

12 Grimmauld Place, though it had not always been at that location and much preferred its original name Maison de Menaçant, had slept for a long time. The last Master of the House had died almost a decade ago. Menaçant had tried to stay awake, for it knew its two younger masters were still alive, and the Mistress still resided in the house. But none of them were the Master of the House, and that made all the difference. So, Menaçant began the slow descent to slumber.

When Menaçant had been a great castle in Normandy, there had been twenty house elves to attend it, and even more wizards living inside the walls, and other creatures besides. Babes had been born and people had died on their grounds, giving their magic in bits and pieces, the ones they didn’t need, the ones they weren’t using to Menaçant. Certainly, its name was misleading, perhaps, for the House took its name from the family who resided between its walls, and the Family there could be quite menaçant indeed. But one did not get a magical house, which could repair itself and move furniture and house rooms inside a structure too small to maintain itself, without giving up a little magic of one's own.

All the time Menaçant’s magic grew, as the family grew and died and changed. Menaçant moved across the ocean with the family, to a new estate, one where the family became Black, but Menaçant remained their home. But then, something odd began to happen, just recently (or as recently as the house could guess as it was nearly thirteen hundred-years-old after all), where fewer children were born, fewer of those born with the Black name lived in the house and gave it magic. There were fewer house elves and no other creatures either to give the house magic. And then the latest Master of the House died, the House ring slipping from his bony fingers and got lost inside the House (which was just fine, as Menaçant could find anything lost). The House shifted into the last mad thoughts of its last Master.

Until, oh, until — Menaçant heard a small voice, shouting as loud as it could. And Menaçant awakened, almost startled by the voice.

Menaçant could feel her almost at once. She was small, practically a babe, but the magic flowed out of her in waves as though she were a full grown wizard. There was a mark on her magic — something had lain there and been recently healed — but she was well enough. And she was strong, Menaçant saw. And practical, it seemed, for she recognized how strange the rooms were, and only wanted just enough to make it a home. She doubted, just a little, but she still spoke to the house. She still wanted to believe. The small witch thought about getting more elves to help Kreacher clean, and a cat or two when Kreacher mentioned the pests (the cats would be welcome, but Menaçant was already making a quick feast of the doxies and boggarts in the house, eating them whole for their magic).

More than her magic or her thoughts, Menaçant saw she was good, and she would be good for the House of Black. So, that night as she slept, Menaçant found the ring from among the many things in the house, and placed it at her bedside.

\---

Roswitha woke after a good night’s rest and for a moment didn’t know where she was. The room was far too large, it didn’t have enclosed space like her… her…

_How odd_, she thought. In the orphanage, she had slept in a dormitory room, which had been bigger than this one as it had needed to accommodate many children. She had never slept in any sort of enclosed space where she would have to worry about hitting her head as she sat up, or sleep on a cot small enough to fit inside… whatever it was.

Roswitha rolled onto her side and found herself looking at a ring that lay on the dusty bedside table, which had not been there the night before. She sat up with a yawn and plucked the ring from the table. It was made of a single piece of metal, dark in color with silver lines running through. The band flattening out on top to show an image of a sort of shield, containing stars, a v, and what looked like it might be a sword, supported on either side by two dogs. Two words inscribed below the shield read, “Toujours Pur.”

“Is this for me?” she asked aloud, looking around as if the house would answer her. Roswitha doubted even a magical house could talk out loud. But she did feel a warm rush over her spine, which settled pleasantly on her burbling stomach. Roswitha slipped the ring onto her right ring finger, and went off to see if Kreacher had made breakfast.

He had — a large spread of fruit, meat, soft boiled eggs, and warm bread. Roswitha tucked in with great abandon for she felt quite hungry.

When Kreacher came to clear the breakfast dishes, he beamed at her. “The House likes little Mistress. The House must be thinking her good to make her its Master.”

“Is that what the ring means?” Roswitha asked, looking at it on her hand.

Kreacher nodded, slowly. Then, even more slowly, he spoke again, “Are there things little Mistress is not knowing? About being a witch?”

Roswitha sighed and sat back in her chair. “Oh, a lot of things, Kreacher. I was at a muggle orphanage before I found out my father had been a wizard, and that I had a home here. The goblins helped me a little, but there’s still so much to learn and do. I’ll tell you what, Kreacher, I know that House Elves are servants, and so you must feel uncomfortable talking out of turn, yes?”

Kreacher nodded.

“Well,” said Roswitha, who had often been punished herself for being out of order and talking out of turn. “If you think there’s something I should know, about the House or being a witch or anything like that, you tell me. No need to ask permission or have me ask a question first, alright?”

“Yes, little Mistress,” said Kreacher with an emphatic nod.

“Good!” Roswitha smiled at him. “It would be a great help if you did, and you’d be taking good care of me.”

“Good care?” Kreacher asked. Then, his big eyes looking up at her, Kreacher said, “If Kreacher is to be taking good care of little Mistress, she should know that goblins is not to be trusted — not much at all. They is not liking any others really beside themselves. But Goblins is s having too much bad blood with wizards — especially wizards.”

“Really?” Roswitha asked. The goblins had healed her after her accident, had made arrangements for her, and while they had not seemed particularly eager to look after a child, neither had they seemed malicious. “Well, that’s good to know I suppose,” said Roswitha, blinking. “Should I take my money out of Gringotts, do you think?”

“There is not being much money in the goblin warren,” said Kreacher, shaking his head. “Most Black’s money is being in the House.”

Roswitha frowned. “Do I have to do magic to find it? I didn’t see it when I went exploring yesterday.”

Kreacher gave a little shrug. “You is wearing the ring, so you is commanding the House. It was being that the money room used to be with the many things room.”

“And where would the many things room be?” Roswitha asked.

“The attic, little Mistress,” said Kreacher, nodding. “The House is needing more magic before it is being able to change the rooms around. If you is wanting to look now it may be being dangerous.”

Roswitha nodded. “I’ll wait then, thank you, Kreacher.” She paused. “Would it offend you if I took on some other house elves?”

"House elves is not being offended, little Mistress." Kreacher looked aghast at the thought. "Never offended — we is not made to be offended."

Roswitha thought about that. He had seemed quite offended by her statement for a moment. "I see. Well, is there anything you need as House Elves? Something I should know as a good mistress to you and the House."

Kreacher thought about this for a moment. He looked a little skittish, almost like he would rather be anywhere but there. "House elves is not really lecturing wizards, little Mistress. It isn't being done."

"I'm not asking for a lecture though," said Roswitha, shaking her head. Kreacher seemed uncomfortable when she was overly kind to him, so she tried to remain firm. "You said I'm the Master of the House now. I imagine that's a pretty big responsibility, and I don't want to mess it up. If I let a house elf perish, before their time, I imagine that would have a negative impact on the magic of the House, would it not?"

Kreacher nodded. "Yes, little Mistress, it would."

"So, I need you, Kreacher, to tell me what harms a house elf or if there is such a thing as too many house elves — anything you think would be relevant to the care and keeping of the house."

Using the word care again seemed to jar Kreacher from the idea that he would be answering back to a superior. He looked thoughtful for a moment before he said, "House elves is needing work above all else, little Mistress. We is not made to be idle. Anything else, house elves is bearing, punishments, no food, but we is needing work."

"If I get too many house elves, there might not be enough for everyone to do then?" Roswitha asked. When Kreacher nodded, she asked again, "How many house elves has House Black had in the past? That you know of, that is?"

"When Kreacher was being small, just born, there were five house elves working in the home," said Kreacher easily. "But there was being ten wizards in the house, and more visiting all the time. When Master Orion was being the Master of the House, and Mistress Walburga was having young Master Sirius and young Master Regulus, there were three." Kreacher drooped for a moment, saying, "and now there is only Kreacher."

"Then I will get two more elves," said Roswitha, resolutely. She, too, deflated after a moment. "Only, I don't know how. Do you know how, Kreacher?"

"The wizards in charge of other wizards is knowing how," said Kreacher, as he began to fidget.

Roswitha saw him shift uncomfortably and said, "Thank you, Kreacher. You may clear the dishes and go."

Kreacher bowed and then clicked his fingers, disappearing along with the dishes.

Roswitha thought on it for a day or so, before she realized that Diagon Alley might have the answers to her problems. She thought "the wizards in charge of other wizards" might mean the ministry for magic. Surely the bookstore would have a pamphlet or book that explained how the government offices worked. There, she could also pick up a set of cats and set a letter at the post office if she found the information she was looking for. So, Roswitha dawned her cloak and made for Diagon Alley.

She stopped by the pet store first.

The clerk there gave her frown when Roswitha explained that she wanted two cats. "Young lady, Hogwarts will only allow one pet."

"Oh!" Roswitha tried to think quickly. "They're not for Hogwarts. It's my mum's birthday and her cats died some months ago — they've been around for as long as I can remember, so they had a really good life, but Mum loved them so much, she hasn't had the heart to come and get another set. My dad thought it would be a good idea though — for her birthday. I'm picking them out since it's my gift to her."

The clerk began to smile as she rambled a little, and her grin was practically blinding as Roswitha finished speaking. "Ah, well, that's a different story. Wait here, I think I have the perfect pair for you."

The clerk came back with one cat so large and grey it covered the whole top half of her body. She returned the back and then came forward again with another. “They’re half kneazle,” said the shop keeper as Roswitha came up to the pet the cats, “part norwegian forest cat. They were part of the same litter and don’t seem to want to leave each other.”

“We get doxies occasionally,” said Roswitha as she pet them both, the cats emitting loud purrs. “Will they do alright against them?”

“Kneazles are naturally resistant to doxy venom,” said the clerk with a nod. “They’ll be fine — they’ll probably even enjoy a little hunt. Now, normally I would sell a kneazle for ten galleons a piece, but these two have been eating up my stock and they’re half and half besides, and they’re too large for any of the carriers I have which makes them a difficult sell. I’ll give them both to you for seven galleons.”

“That seems fair,” said Roswitha, as she pulled out her purse. That was the amount she had spent on her wand, after all, and here she was getting two cats for that price. She counted out the four galleons. “Have they got names?” she asked, handing over the money.

The clerk shook her head. “No, not as of yet.”

Roswitha recalled a book on norse mythology, and with the names of gods and thoughts of grey cats swirling around in her head, she pointed to the boy cat, “You will be Freyr, and you,” she said pointing to the girl cat, “will by Freyja.”

Both cats purred with their appointments.

“I suppose I should ask,” said Roswitha, “would you like to come home with me?” The cats leaped from the counter and came down by her side, making Roswitha laugh. “Very good.” She looked over her shoulder and said, “Thank you!” to the shop clerk.

The shop clerk, who had the most perplexed look on her face, waved as Roswitha wandered outside with the cats.

Freyr and Freyja stopped where she stopped when Roswitha paused to think. “I can’t take you to the post office, I think you’ll frighten the owls. Kreacher!”

Kreacher appeared with a small pop in front of her. “Yes, little Mistress?”

“Can you take our new cats home, please?” said Roswitha, rubbing both cats behind the ears.

Kreacher’s eyes widened with delight as he reached out and the cats both began to rub up against him. “They is big cats, they is, little Mistress.”

Roswitha has to stifle a laugh. The cats were nearly as big as Kreacher himself. “Are you alright, Kreacher?”

“Kreacher is liking cats, little Mistress,” said Kreacher, as he hefted Freyr in one arm and Freyja in the other. “Kreacher is taking good care of them, little Mistress.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” said Roswitha. The elf disappeared with a pop.

The bookstore had exactly what she was looking for in the form of a pamphlet that only cost her a sickle. The pamphlet, which she read outside the shop as she was chided that “this is not a library, young lady,” revealed that the Ministry for Magic had an Office of House Elf affairs. They handled distribution and redistribution of elves from household to household. The pamphlet also mentioned there was a cost for this, but did not say what it was.

She had less luck at the post office. They did not allow her to write her letter, though Roswitha had her own pen and parchment. _And _they said an adult had to sign for her! The nerve! As if everyone simply had an adult on hand! Roswitha left in a huff, and instead went down the street to Eeylops Owl Emporium.

“May I buy an owl, please?” Roswitha asked the clerk in a low voice. Even if she was upset at being refused, the refusal had also damaged her confidence somewhat.

The clerk blinked at her gently, saying, “Certainly — pick whichever one you like.”

Roswitha spent a moment looking around the shop and found herself calmed by the dark environment. As she moved through the aisles she heard a soft “hooo… hooo” which led her to a snowy owl. “Hello,” Roswitha called to it, having the strangest feeling of deja vu. She offered her hand out to the owl.

The owl flapped its wings gracefully and landed on Roswitha’s hand. The owl’s talons dug into her wrist, but not like the owl was trying to hurt, just like she was trying to hold on. Roswitha stroked the owl’s feathers and asked quietly, “Would you like to come home with me?”

The owl hooted in what sounded like the affirmative, so Roswitha took her up to the counter. The clerk check that this was the owl she really wanted, as the snowy owls ran a little bit more expensive, but Roswitha replied in the affirmative and she had the galleons to pay for it. The clerk must have felt bad for her as he gave her a cage for no extra cost (or, perhaps, that was standard as the cat carriers might have been).

Roswitha then walked home with her new owl trying to think of a name for the sweet girl who hooted gently at Roswitha before tucking her head to go to sleep. The walk, as always, was fairly short, but Roswitha found herself drowsy by the time she returned. Kreacher dug a perch out of the attic and placed it in Roswitha’s room on the third floor. The owl woke only to crawl onto the perch, and Roswitha stayed awake only to eat the hearty soup and fresh bread Kreacher had made for her before taking a nap.

When Roswitha woke at tea time, she wrote out her purchases in her ledger; her allowance allowed for 10,000 galleons a year, and she didn’t want to overspend. Roswitha doubted the goblins would have any mercy for her carelessness. Then, she wrote out a letter to the Office of House Elf Affairs requesting the price to transfer two house elves to her. After the reaction of the store clerk in the post office, Roswitha merely signed her letter as R. A. Black. She left it sit on her desk, however, as she wanted to give her owl a name first.

\---

A few days later after reviewing history and mythology books alike, Roswitha named her owl Hedwig, and sent her off with the letter.

The house, in the meantime had begun to change —slowly, but it had begun to change. It seemed that as Roswitha slept, the house would shrink. It would tuck away the many vast rooms until they were left with a reasonable number for each floor. The large bedrooms were scaled down into more manageable ones, only one room with couches existed per floor now (the music room, as it must have been for it had the piano, was now on the first floor and the second floor had the sitting room with the family tree wrapping around its walls). There were still more rooms than Roswitha knew what to do with (seven bedrooms including her own), and two of them even appeared to be growing, for she could now access the library from the third floor and the conservatory looked as if it was trying to make a door for her somewhere. But things were changing. The house seemed less dreary and dank and more filled with sunshine and warmth.

Roswitha received a reply about her new elves within a week and sent a reply accepting the necessary cost of transportation with an impression of her vault key (as the impression had to be sent to Gringotts to make the withdrawal, she figured the goblins would destroy it once the transaction was completed). And then the next day she had two new house elves who had appeared in the kitchen.

Roswitha quizzed them about what chores they liked best and what services they had provided before. Bits had been a kitchen and garden elf and could perform any task related to food, like preserving, stilling, cooking and more. Plop had been a nanny elf, helping with nursery and bedtime and even some studies — she seemed eager that there was a little Mistress to look after. They both accepted Roswitha, and Roswitha accepted them.

From there, the house began to see real improvements. The House itself, could change around rooms and provide new items, like moving the desk Roswitha used for her studies from her bedroom to the third floor of the library, or adding the book shelf in her room, or the full length mirror that appeared in her dressing room. But sometimes, may times, when the house moved itself around it left a trail of dust and dirt in its wake. Sometimes, a room or an item hadn’t see the light of day in a hundred years or more. The house elves could clean and shine and move things in more minor increments if Roswitha wanted a piece of furniture moved several feet but could not do it herself. What’s more, they didn’t have to wait for her to fall asleep, like the house did.

Of course, with three house elves now, Roswitha sometimes needed to solve disputes. Roswitha began to hate it when the elves fought — she always got a headache when they did, even if they were fighting out of her hearing. Of course, to resolve the headache, she normally had to resolve the dispute.

“Plop is wanting to destroy property,” Kreacher claimed one afternoon when Plop had removed some charmed items from the sitting room.

“These is dark magical things — wanting to hurt little Mistress,” said Plop resolutely. “Of course Plop is wanting to throw them out.”

“They is Black heirlooms!” Kreacher protested. “And you is a Black Elf, now, you is not supposed to be taking from the House.”

“You’re both right,” Roswitha decided at last. “Plop is right because I don’t want something to hurt me, and Kreacher is right because these are my family’s things. Here is what we will do. Kreacher, I want you to fetch a chest from the attic. If there is anything dangerous in the house put it into the chest. I will write my representative at Gringotts, and we’ll store it in a vault there until I’m a little older and can learn how to use these things. Does that suit everyone?”

Plop and Kreacher both nodded.

“And Kreacher,” said Roswitha, looking at the elder elf. “You’ve been a Black Elf the longest. Maybe you can teach the others about what the House is and what it means, alright?”

Kreacher nodded to her. “Kreacher will be teaching the others, little Mistress.”

After that, there were fewer disputes, thought they did crop up occasionally.

A goblin representative came by to collect the chest a day after it had been packed. Roswitha had to warn them several times it was full of dark artifacts, for they seemed eager to inspect it.

\---

Roswitha began lessons with the start of the new term. Though she liked Grimmauld Place, she was also glad that she had thought to set up some sort of lessons (and ever grateful the goblins had helped her).

Her tutors in Maths, French, Norwegian and German had not questioned why an eight-year-old would want to learn these things. Given how nicely Roswitha dressed, they all assumed she was a well to do child being schooled privately. Annie the boxing instructor, on the other hand, had squinted hard at Roswitha. “Homeschool?” she had asked at last.

“Yes,” said Roswitha, nodding.

“Odd that you’d want to box,” said Annie. “Most kids’d be looking for karate these days. That one film and all.”

“My parents thought it would be good discipline — wanted something more traditional.” In truth, Roswitha didn’t know why the goblins had picked boxing over something like karate.

At that Annie had smirked. “Well, they won’t be wrong. Let’s start then.”

Annie was not brutal — she was not the sort of person who treated an eight-year-old the way she would an adult — but she did set a pace that allowed only for a little forgiveness. Each day they learn drills and practiced the ones they had done before. Annie taught Roswitha calisthenics to make her body stronger and suggested Roswitha start running to give her stamina and help her learn how to breathe.

When she was not going to lessons planned for her, Roswitha often assigned herself other things to do. Even though the goblins had not found her a tutor for English or History or Art, it did not mean she couldn’t study those things on her own. For English, Roswitha would read and read often. She visited charity shops and second hand book stores, devouring books for children her age and anything that had magic in it. Roswitha made sure history books made it into her regular rotation — history of magic and muggle history intertwined to give her a wider picture of the world.

Art was both easier and harder to come by. There were several museums and galleries in London, so Roswitha simply purchased tickets and went in to gaze at the art on the walls or the curated collections of work. Each time she went, Roswitha prayed not to be noticed, and she was not. Was it magic, or was it simply that there was always a queue and a girl purchasing tickets was not so odd? To cap off her weekly routine, Roswitha went to the movies, simply because she could. There, no one noticed her either — perhaps because she never purchased R rated tickets or because they were more overworked than those people who worked at the museums.

The last part of herself tutelage was spell casting. Her desk had old books and Hogwarts supply lists that had belonged to her father. From the lists, Roswitha could construct a witch’s education as Hogwarts normally taught it, and supplement here and there from other books in the Black Library. When she felt confident enough, Roswitha would cast the spells in her little library alcove, or sometimes in the garden if something like water or fire was involved.

Roswitha settled into this new life eagerly. She took to her lessons glad to be out in the world, especially since it made her glad to come home. Roswitha talked to the House, telling it the changes she loved and how warm and safe she felt. She grew several inches, and began to fill out to a more appropriate weight. Roswitha couldn’t remember starving before, but here she never went hungry and always ate as much as she wanted. Roswitha grew to love her home and her elves and her life.

\---

And with all the magic Roswitha used, and with the strength Roswitha gained, Menaçant grew stronger too. With all the cleaning the house elves did, with the removal of the dark objects, and with ever doxie the cats caught, the House grew stronger.

Menaçant had not felt as it did in decades. Strange, how one child could bring in so much life, and strange how her love could give so much power. And strange, how her love for it made Menaçant want to protect her. But the wards around the House were old — though Roswitha’s love and strength had charged them as well, they weren’t what they once were. The House needed help. It needed the other witches and wizards who belonged to it and to whom it belonged.

The House did not have much magic it could spare, especially since it wanted to take care of its young ward, but this bit of old magic it could do. The Call Home technically needed to be initiated by the Head of the House, but given how Roswitha needed protection, and how for all her happy sighs there were wistful ones as well, Menaçant took action.

And so, seven months after Roswitha came to Maison de Menaçant, the Call Home began to spread out as the Master of the House dreamed. The Call spread from the House into London, and from London into the rest of England, from England to Wales and Scotland and a lonely island on the coast where its inhabitants slept in filthy cells, and from there to the coast of France. There were seven people the call reached, seven people who lay awake that night feeling the presence of the old family home, and seven is a good number for these things.

Two had never seen the home, two thought they might never see it again after old Walburga Black died, and two would have to make a grand escape to lessen the call from their minds.

Only one tossed and turned — only one, growing restless with lack of sleep, packed a bag. This one summoned a silver key from among his possessions, and only with the key in his hands could this one get any sleep that night. In the morning, this one made his way to the French government de magie and ordered a portkey for London. This one walked down the familiar streets, haunted by shadows everywhere.

Then, this one came to Grimmauld Place. He crossed over to the even side of the street and seemed to disappear between number 10 and number 14. He took the silver key from his pocket and slipped it inside the lock, and opened up the door.

\---

Roswitha was just coming down for breakfast and since it was summer now, she planned to spend the whole day lazing around. The conservatory had grown a pool recently, and she thought it might be nice to swim a little before reading the day away. As she got off the stairs to head for the dining room, her front door opened and a man appeared in the entryway.

They stared at each other.

“Who are you?” the man asked after a moment's hesitation.

“I live here,” Roswitha reported.

“You can’t live here,” said the man. “Nobody lives here anymore.”

Roswitha puffed up. “Well I do! And I have every right to live here — my name is Roswitha Artemis Black, and I am the daughter of Regulus Arcturus Black II. If anyone shouldn’t be here, it’s you!”

The man paused — his blue eyes went wide underneath his hat as he looked her up and down. “Are you really…” He paused and had to swallow. “Are you really the daughter of Regulus Black?”

“Yes,” said Roswitha, still feeling quite petulant at being talked down to. “Who are you?”

“I…” He removed his hat and knelt on one knee. “I _am_ Regulus Black II. Which means that I am your father.”

“Oh,” said Roswitha, looking him up and down as well. He certainly looked like the few photographs she had seen. And there was something about him — something that seemed to tell her that he was her father indeed. “Well, how do you do, Pappa?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Pappa, sounding a little like he was choking on his words.

Roswitha could see tears forming in his eyes.“Would you like a hug?” she asked

Pappa nodded, holding out his arms. “Yes — yes, come here my darling heart.”

Roswitha came forward and hugged her father, and he hugged her just as tightly. “I always wanted parents,” she murmured, “and a home. And now I have both — though I got it a little backwards.”

She heard Pappa snort in her ear. He pulled back, smiling at her and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Yes, that is just a little backwards. But no matter, why don’t we have breakfast and you can tell me all about it.”

Roswitha smiled back at him and took him by the hand, and led the way.


	2. The Family Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roswitha spends time with her father and cousins.

Roswitha talked all morning as the occupied the sitting room long after Bits cleared the breakfast dishes — she told her father about growing up in an orphanage and never knowing she was a witch. Then she spoke of how she had gotten the Gringotts letter at the orphanage, about going to Gringotts and finding out about her inheritance.

“So, your mother…?” Pappa had asked. 

Roswitha has shook her head. “I never really knew her; she died when I was very young. I have my birth certificates, though. Mama was German, so I had one for there too, but I was born here.” 

Roswitha showed the two certificates to Pappa, and he traced Mama’s name over and over again. Roswitha did the same sometimes, marking the curly letters Lilith Hansen had used to make her name. Pappa’s signature wasn’t on either of them, but Mama had included his name. 

“What was the letter about?” Pappa asked, when he looked up from the documents. “The letter Gringotts sent you.” 

“It was a letter informing me that my relatives were considered legally dead, as they hadn’t accessed their vaults in more than seven years,” said Roswitha. She looked through the box where she kept her important documents, all her school records and things, and came up blank. “That’s odd, I would have kept something like that. Anyway, I went to Gringotts, and they had me do this test where I pricked my finger, and the Black family vaults all came up.”

Here Pappa rolled his eyes and muttered moodily, “Of course the goblins performed blood magic on a child.” 

“Did I do something wrong?” Roswitha asked. 

Pappa met her eye and smiled at her. “No, darling heart, you wouldn’t have known. Blood magic can just be dangerous, and well, goblins do not like wizards, even young ones. They might have hurt you.”

“That’s what Kreacher said when I first mentioned the goblins had helped me,” said Roswitha, nodding. 

Pappa’s smile widened. “Kreacher’s still around is he?” 

Roswitha nodded. “Yes. Kreacher!” she called out, summoning him. 

Kreacher appeared with a pop in the family sitting room where they had moved breakfast and looked quite nervous. 

Pappa didn’t look nervous at all though, “Hullo, Kreacher, it’s been some time, hasn’t it.” 

“Yes it is being some time,” said Kreacher, then he broke down in sobs, wringing his ears with his hands. “Kreacher is sorry Master Regulus, Kreacher is doing his best with the house and with the promise he made Master Regulus, but it is being so very difficult until the little Mistress came. And then little Mistress is sending all the dark things, like what Master Regulus gave Kreacher, to Gringotts.” 

Roswitha reached out and rubbed the elf’s back. “It’s alright, Kreacher! I know we can’t trust the goblins, but they wouldn’t dare steal from us. Plus you’ve only ever done as you are told.” 

“Roswitha is right, Kreacher,” said Pappa. He reached out, to give Kreacher a friendly pat, but then thought better of it. “I’m sure you followed my orders the best that you could. And to be honest, I cannot remember what we talked about the last we spoke. Something… happened to me and I lost a good chunk of my memory.” 

“Are you alright?” Roswitha asked, hands still on Kreacher, but eyes turning toward her father. 

“Yes, darling heart,” said Pappa. “This would have been years ago, before you were even born. That’s part of why, I’m afraid, I do not remember you mother, and would have no inkling of you. Here now, Kreacher, dry your tears.” 

Kreacher pulled back from Roswitha and sniffled a little. “Is Kreacher needing to be punished?”

“No!” said Roswitha at once. “Certainly not! You’ve behaved just perfectly, Kreacher. I wouldn’t punish you because two orders at two seperate times conflicted a little bit. I wouldn’t be a very good Mistress if I did. Here now, go and do what you need to do to calm down — find the cats or polish the silver.” Kreacher liked to polish things until they shined, Roswitha had found. “I would suggest you take a break, but I know you don’t like those.”

Kreacher sniffled a little, but gave a watery smile. “Little Mistress is very good. Kreacher is going now.” And then he disappeared with a little pop.

“You are a very good Mistress,” Pappa remarked, looking at her. “Many others would have punished him, if only to get him to calm down.”

Roswitha scrunched up her nose. “What for? He didn’t do anything wrong!”

Pappa only hummed for a moment. “Yes, I agree. There’s been a large change in him as well — he seems happier than he’s been before. I imagine you did that, along with the amazing things you did to the house.” 

“Erm, well.” Roswitha flushed a little. “The house did most of the work. I imagined a little bit, and encouraged it, but I couldn’t have done all this.” 

“You encouraged the house?” Pappa asked with a wide smile. 

“By talking to it, you know,” said Roswitha, feeling herself grow even hotter. She was almost grateful when he heard the doorbell down below. Then, her memory caught up to the moment. “I didn’t know we had a doorbell, no one’s every rung it before.” 

Pappa pulled himself up from his chair. “Well, even so, we should not keep them waiting.” He offered a hand out to her.

Roswitha took it with a smile and they went downstairs together. 

Pappa opened the door, explaining that he was the adult. 

At the door stood two women, both with dark hair, though one had her hair streaked with blonde, and they were glaring at one another. Behind them were two children — the girl was in her teens and wore her hair in a bright purple color, and the boy looked to be Roswitha’s age and had pale blond hair. 

Both women though looked up when the door opened and instantly their glares dropped for looks of surprise instead. “Regulus!” they both said at once around a gasp. 

“Andromeda, Narcissa,” said Pappa leaning on the door frame. 

Narcissa, the woman with blonde streaked hair and blond son, pulled him out of the doorway and into her arms. “We thought you dead, Regulus, for so many years.”

“I thought myself dead for a time,” said Pappa, returning her embrace. When he released Narcissa, he moved to hug Andromeda. Andromeda looked surprised, but eagerly took him into her arms. “I wonder if both of you are here for the same reason I am.” 

“The oddest feeling like you should go and visit the old family home?” Andromeda asked as they pulled away from one another. 

“Yes,” said Pappa. He stepped back, holding out his arm. “Come in, please; there is someone to who I’d like to introduce you both.” 

Narcissa strode across the threshold, the boy following after her with a skip. Andromeda and her daughter followed after. Instantly, Roswitha felt Andromeda’s and Narcissa’s eyes on her. Pappa stepped behind her and placed a comforting set of hands on her shoulder. “Meda, Cissa, this is my daughter, Roswitha Artemis Black. Roswitha, this are my cousins, and yours, Andromeda, Narcissa, and their children.” 

Both Pappa and Narcissa looked to Andromeda, who brought her daughter forward, saying, “This is my daughter, Nymphadora.” Nymphadora looked quite embarrassed, but instead of her cheeks changing color, her hair did to a fire engine red.

“And this is my son, Draco,” said Narcissa, also bringing her son forward. Draco didn’t look embarrassed at all — instead he beamed at everyone’s attention. 

“Roswitha, why don’t you show your cousins the playroom,” said Pappa, reaching down and kissing her cheek. “While we adults sit and have a chat. Have they eaten?” Pappa asked his two cousins. 

“Yes,” said the pair of them at once, turning again to glare at one another. 

Roswitha, pretending not to notice their animosity, turned to the cousins closer to her age and said, “The playroom is on the top floor, c’mon.” Then she turned and made for the stairs, hearing her cousins follow after her. 

A father and cousins all in the same day! _How wonderful_, thought Roswitha as they went up the stairs. But no sooner had she gotten them up in the playroom did Roswitha get a good look at her cousins. 

Draco eyed her suspiciously. “If you’re our cousin, why haven’t I heard of you until now?” 

Roswitha shrugged and flopped onto a comfortable sofa in the playroom. “I hadn’t heard of you either.” Though, that wasn’t strictly true — both Nymphadora and Draco appeared on the family tree in the sitting room. “But that’s probably because I lived in an orphanage until last December. I didn’t even know I was a witch.”

Draco frowned. “Are you… are you a half blood?” 

“I’m a half blood, sprog,” said Nymphadora, coming into the conversation. She had been examining the shelf full of games, and came over with a game called _Sorry_. Roswitha had examined the game shelf many times, but almost all of them were multiplayer games.

“What’s a half blood?” Roswitha asked. 

“Someone who has only two or three magical grandparents,” said Nymphadora, as she opened the _Sorry_ box and pulled out a game board, settling in at a coffee table. “D’you sprogs mind if I’m yellow? House colors and all.” 

Draco wanted to be green, and Roswitha picked red of the remaining two colors. They, too, settled around the coffee table, sitting back on their bottoms. 

“What’s a sprog, Nymphadora?” Draco asked as she unfolded the rules booklet. 

Nymphadora’s hair changed color again — not to fire engine red, but a darker read. “A sprog is a young person such as yourselves. And I don’t really like being called Nymphadora.” 

“What shall we call you then?” Roswitha asked. 

Nymphadora shrugged as her hair faded back to purple. “Most of my classmates call me Tonks.”

Both Draco and Roswitha wrinkled their noses at the thought. “But you’re our cousin!” Draco protested. “We can’t go around calling you by your surname!” 

“Could we call you Nym?” Roswitha asked. “And how are you doing that with your hair?” Roswitha asked when Nymphadora changed it to a teal blue at the thought.

The older girl chuckled. “Nym’s alright, I guess. And I’m a metamorphmagus.” 

Draco gasped with admiration, but Roswitha tried to puzzle out what it meant. “You… measure change?” Roswitha asked. 

Nym chuckled again. “Close — I change myself. The English _meta_ not the Latin. I think I know how to play this game now, would you like to hear?” 

Both Draco and Roswitha nodded. Nym explained the game to them and they went on to play for a time. Bits popped in with snacks and juice for elevenses while their parents talked on. After they finished the game, Roswitha suggested they go swimming in the conservatory as she had originally planned. Especially, she explained, since the House had provided her with additional swimming costumes than what she had first asked for one. 

“Hmm,” said Nym, when presented with the swimming suit that Ros had stored in her bedroom, especially lingering on the bottoms Draco held in his hands. “I think this’ll work, but we should probably still ask the parents, or let them know where we’ll be.” 

Swimming suits in hand, they began the trek down to the sitting room. They heard their parents long before they saw them.

Cousin Narcissa muttered, “But how could you not know?”

Pappa sighed and huffed. “I washed up on a beach in Normandy, Cissa, there’s a lot I don’t know from that time. It took years before any memories returned to me at all. Even so about a year, from the time I was about seventeen to the moment I woke up in that hospital, that time is just… gone.” 

“And you’ve seen a mind healer?” Cousin Andromeda asked. 

“Yes, of course,” said Pappa. He looked up as the three of them appeared in the doorway. “Do you need something, children?”

“May we go swimming in the conservatory?” Roswitha asked, without any hesitation. “It grew a pool yesterday.” 

“Rooms don’t grow pools,” said Draco, at the same time as Pappa said, “We don’t have a conservatory.” 

“Of course we do,” said Roswitha to her father. “It took a little while for the House to be able to grow a door to it that wasn’t on the third floor, but it did. And I know most rooms can’t change like that, but the rooms in this House can.” 

All three adults looked greatly puzzled now. Pappa put down the cup of tea he had been drinking on the mantle and asked, “Could you show us, my darling?” 

Roswitha nodded. “Certainly, you can enter on the ground floor now. I’ll show you.” Roswitha turned, nudging past her cousins and went for the stairs, expecting everyone to follow. She was at the bottom of the stairs before they started after her, but they followed all the same. 

It used to be that the entry hall only led to the drawing room, the dining room, the stairs to the cellar and a small water closet. Now, if you went under the stairs up to the first floor, there was a door made of mostly glass that led into the conservatory. Roswitha led the way in to a room made almost entirely of glass — panels were melded together with metal at the seams so you could see out into the blue sky, and some place that was clearly not a part of Grimmauld Place, as it let out onto rolling hills and blue skies darkening with a few clouds. There was, however, a door to one side that let out into the back garden. Roswitha was not quite sure how it worked, and while she wanted to know, she was just as happy to have a place to go with sunshine and trees where it did not look suspicious for a young girl to be alone. .

That it was all glass made sense, for the conservatory housed several fruit trees, along with other plants that needed a warm space to grow. Part of the floor had not been made solid, and instead were soil through and through, so the trees branched out growing together and up. There was only a small path cobbled from the door to a lounge area, where several chaises lay for relaxing, as well as a small, round table with only a few chairs for a small lunch or maybe tea. Near that was a tennis court and the pool the conservatory had grown just the day before. 

“You’re sure the pool wasn’t there?” Nym asked her as they went further in. 

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “I would have noticed a pool, Nym.” 

Narcissa wandered over, with carefully placed steps, to an orange tree. She lifted and twisted the orange from the tree and peeled it, revealing the fruit. Taking a bite, Narcissa announced. “They are real.” 

Pappa held out his hand, and Narcissa brought him the fruit. Pulling his wand from up his sleeve Pappa began casting spells. 

Narcissa huffed. “You might have done all of that before I ate part of it.”

“You might have given it to me before you ate it,” Pappa retorted, before muttering one final spell. “It’s safe, in any case, not cursed or otherwise enchanted.”

“Can I have one?” Draco asked. 

Pappa looked to Narcissa, who nodded, before he passed the orange to Draco. Pappa then turned back to her, saying, “Roswitha, darling, how are these trees growing in the house?” 

“Well, they plant in the soil,” said Roswitha, slowly. She didn’t actually know much about how trees grew. “And Bits takes care of them, he’s very good with plants, and our garden. We’ve started getting a lot of produce from there rather than a green grocer.” 

“I think what your father means to ask,” said Andromeda, “is where exactly did the conservatory come from? It can’t be in London. And while the house has always been expanded, this places is… on a completely different level.” 

“I don’t really know,” said Roswitha, shrugging a little as all three of the adults eyed her. “I told the house I like the conservatory when I first came to live here, so it kept it on. There were other rooms — lots of places with plenty of those strange couches — that I didn’t really think we needed, so it… it hid them I guess? I’m not sure how it works, I just know that it does.” She paused, waiting to see if they had any more questions before she asked, “Can we go swimming now?” 

The three adults shared a look — Roswitha did have some experience in reading adults now. She imagined their shared look said something like they should investigate this place more — this had been their childhood home, and _they_ had never had a conservatory. That one now existed was odd, magic or no magic. On the other hand, it would give the three children something to do that would occupy them while the parents continued to talk. 

“Alright,” said Pappa at last, returning his gaze to Roswitha. “But only until lunch.” 

Roswitha turned to the younger cousins. “I’ll show you where the water closet is, that will be the fastest way to change.” 

The adults left them too it, allowing them to splash and swim around for the better part of an hour until Kreacher came and announced that lunch had been served. All that time, their parents simply sat and talked, getting out of their formal robes into the clothes underneath which surely would have been much cooler as the conservatory was quite warm. Kreacher, when he announced lunch, also came with three towels so that the three children might wrap themselves up and dry off a bit more organically as they ate at the small table in the conservatory with their parents. Narcissa tsk’d a little at the idea, but she let off easily enough when Draco tucked in to his food. 

“Roswitha,” said Narcissa, turning her attention away from her son, “what sort of lessons have you had, my dear?”

Roswitha hummed, remembering to swallow the food she had in her mouth before she answered. “I have maths every Monday, French on Tuesdays, Norwegian Wednesdays, German on Thursdays and boxing three days a week.” 

“Boxing?” Narcissa frowned. “Good gracious, why?”

Roswitha shrugged. “I needed some sort of P.E. and a martial art seemed the best for that. Plus I couldn’t find anyone who would teach me how to use a sword.” 

“Mum what was that place I took fencing at?” Nym asked. 

Andromeda grinned at her daughter, “I don’t think she meant a foil, dearest Dora. That’s an awful lot of lessons for a young girl; surely it meets with your approval, Cissa?”

“Nearly,” said Narcissa, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t tell me you didn’t endeavour to teach Nymphadora etiquette.”

“I endeavored,” said Andromeda, nodding and frowning at the same time. Then she turned to Pappa. “She might have a point there, Reg.”

“Give me a little time to get things sorted,” said Pappa, taking a drink of lemonade. “I’ve only just gotten back to England today. I’ve only just met my daughter _today_. I still have contracts to fulfill in France.” 

“You’re a father, now, Reg,” said Andromeda, casually sipping her own lemonade. “You’ll have to learn that balancing act. Luckily you’ll have two cousins around to help you.” 

“Two now?” Narcissa asked, looking to Andromeda. 

Andromeda only raised an eyebrow. “Yes, two. Will that be a problem?”

Narcissa hesitated for a single moment — she looked like she might be thinking. “Not with me,” she said at last.

“How gratifying to know,” said Pappa after a moment, a smile coming to his face. 

After they finished eating, the adults insisted they had spent enough time swimming for the day and that they dry off completely and change back into their clothes. The adults then chatted for a little bit longer before finally saying goodbye to one another. 

Then Pappa asked Roswitha to show him the whole house, not to skip over any room, despite how inconsequential it might seem. They started in the basement and worked their way up, Roswitha showing him the garden, kitchen, and pantry, as well as the cellar, scullery, and still room which had come along when Bits had. 

They went floor by floor that way — they made quick work of the ground floor, as all it contained was the parlor, the dining room, water closet, and the door to the conservatory. After, they went up to the first floor to see the state room, the music room, the library (which stretched up to the third floor), another water closet, a small balcony (which Roswitha explained what sometimes closed off into another kind of dining room, which Pappa informed her was a solar, but had decided to expose itself overlooking the back garden when the weather turned nice). 

The second floor had the Master’s bedroom, the study, two other bedrooms, another part of the library, and the family sitting room. The third floor had the last part of the library and the playroom, and two bedrooms, one of which was now, thankfully, missing the posters of the nearly naked women, and the other of which was hers. Pappa looked sort of wistful when they toured the bedrooms. “These used to be mine and Sirius’ bedrooms.” 

“Who’s Sirius?” Roswitha asked, around a yawn. 

Pappa smiled down at her, running his fingers through her hair. “I think perhaps a nap is in order for you, my darling heart.”

“Alright, but that doesn’t tell me who Sirius is,” said Roswitha. She took off her shoes and climbed onto her bed and looked up at her father. 

Pappa looked for a moment as if he may cry, his eyes shiny and wet, before he banished the look away by clenching his jaw. “Sirius is my brother,” said Pappa at last. “And your uncle. I’m afraid you won’t see him, though; he did something very wrong and had to go to prison.” 

“Oh.” Roswitha had known a boy at the orphanage whose father had gone to prison and everyone always made fun of him. Her father looked as sad as that boy had. “Would you like a hug, Pappa?” 

Pappa looked down at her again with a strange little smile and said, “I would love a hug, my darling heart, thank you.” He sat next to her on the bed, and they pulled one another close for a long moment. Then, Pappa pulled away and asked, “Now then, shall I read you a story, or should we save that for bedtime?” 

“A story now please,” said Roswitha. 

“Lie down, then,” Pappa directed, as he stood and went to her bookshelf. He pulled off a book that the house had given her, but Roswitha had never read, called _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and opened it up to a page entitled “Babbity-Rabbity.” 

Roswitha listened to her father read and slowly drifted off, letting sleep take her easily with a smile. 

—

The next few weeks were the most chaotic Roswitha had ever known, but they were the most exciting weeks she had known so far. 

As Pappa still had business in France he needed to travel back there quite frequently for work. Especially as a brand new father he did not feel comfortable leaving Roswitha on her own — though Roswitha had protested a little. “But I did it before,” she said around a pout.

“Well, but you didn’t have a father before,” said Pappa, raising an eyebrow and seemingly unimpressed with her pout. 

Pappa explained it all to her — as a cursebreaker he used a lot of magic everyday in his work. Apparating, a wizard’s most common form of transportation, required a wizard to have plenty of reserves to draw on, which Pappa may not have at the end of the day. If he tried to apparate when he was not in a fit state, he could hurt himself, even die. Portkeys, another common form of instant transportation, were regulated by the government and could grow costly when used with great frequency. But, when he got the wards on Grimmauld Place situated so they might have a floo, he would be able to travel by fireplace, back and forth each night without trouble. 

For now, though, there would be stretches of time where he needed to go back to France and Roswitha needed to stay with relatives for the time being. 

“I could go with you,” said Roswitha when he had explained.

Pappa considered this. “You could,” he said at last. “But I don’t know what you would do all day while I was working. You have your boxing lessons here, and other people your age to keep you company.” 

Roswitha supposed she was grateful that Cousin Andromeda and Nym — along with Ted, Andromeda’s husband and Nym’s dad — lived in London and had a spare bedroom where Roswitha could stay on relatively short notice. Cousin Narcissa and Draco — along with Lucius, Narcissa’s husband and Draco’s father — lived out in the country. Narcissa had claimed a whole week of Roswitha’s time, but conceded that Andromeda would be a better first host and Narcissa needed time to prepare activities befitting a young woman, and Roswitha would need time to make arrangements for travel. 

But still — she had just found a father and now he needed to go traveling for days and days at a time. And there was just something about being made to stay with relatives, no matter how soundly explained, which gave Roswitha a sour stomach. 

So, Roswitha bargained that when they got the floo installed they would celebrate by going to the zoo. When Pappa asked why the zoo, Roswitha explained that she had never been before, and it would be nice to go with her father. Pappa chuckled and agreed, shaking her hand to seal the deal.

Pappa dropped her off with the Tonks family the following Sunday. She would stay with them for four days while her father finished out a contract and began to pack up his apartment in Le Havre. 

Roswitha liked being around Nym, because the older girl was interesting and knew a lot. But Nym did have to do homework and had a summer job. Sometimes, though, Roswitha got the impression that she didn’t want to hang around with a kid. Roswitha didn’t understand Nym’s avoidance much at all, but perhaps it was because Nym had so many friends her own age. She tried not to get offended. 

She thought Cousin Ted (or just Ted as she was allowed to call him) liked her, but sometimes he would stare at her and mutter, “How in the world?” Roswitha knew this to mean “how in the world did an eight-year-old survive on her own for so long?” She knew because she had heard Ted and Andromeda discussing the matter several times in hushed tones. But Ted was nice and he could be fun, teaching her how to play card games and reading books with her. Both he and Andromeda worked (Ted as a healer and Andromeda as a barrister), so he was out quite frequently, but he did seem to like spending time with her. 

Andromeda gave her a slim, blue covered book called _Etiquette for Witches _the first day Roswitha came to stay with them. “Now, you certainly don’t have to read the whole thing on my watch. It’s almost nine-hundred pages long. But I thought you should have your own copy since Narcissa will be acting on it with a vengeance.” 

“How on earth can it be nine hundred pages?” Roswitha asked. It was less than half an inch thick, but when she flicked through, there were certainly more than expected. 

“Magic, dear girl,” said Andromeda, with a smile. 

Andromeda was also the one who went with her to boxing lessons, rearranging her schedule a little so Nym didn’t have to take Roswitha. “Does Nym not like me?” Roswitha asked as they got off the Tube and walked the rest of the way to the boxing gym. 

“Of course she likes you, poppet,” said Andromeda, giving her a smile. “Nymphadora’s just not used to looking after someone. I was the biggest sister out of me and Bella and Cissa, so I’m too used to looking after people. I appreciate that she’s helped so much, but I didn’t want to make her help either because I know how it feels to be made to do something like that.” 

Roswitha scrunched her nose at that. “I didn’t know you had another sister.” When Andromeda froze a little bit, Roswitha asked softly, “Is Cousin Bella like Uncle Sirius?”

Andromeda looked down to her. “Your pappa told you about him, did he?”

“He told me Uncle Sirius did something very wrong and went to prison,” said Roswitha, nodding. “But it made him sad, so I didn’t ask anymore. I’m sorry I made you sad, too, Meda.” 

Andromeda pulled her in for a hug. “Oh, don’t be sorry, sweet girl. Bellatrix made me sad when she chose to do such awful things. We’ll tell you about it all proper when you’re a little older, I promise.” 

“Alright,” said Roswitha. 

Andromeda watched as Roswitha did her drills with Annie, despite Annie’s enticements to join them, and then spoke with Annie at length about how Roswitha would be absent in the next week, and perhaps sporadically over the summer as Pappa worked out how he would get to and from work. 

“Who’s been bringing you if your father’s been working in France?” Annie asked with a tilt of her head. 

“My nanny,” said Roswitha, easily. “But she went to go back to university, and Pappa’s been trying to work from England anyway so…” Roswitha shrugged again. 

Roswitha got the impression that Andromeda and Annie would have talked a great deal longer if Andromeda hadn’t needed to get to work. They took the tube back, and then Andromeda apparated to work. Nym was still sleeping, so Roswitha went out to the Tonks’ small garden and day dreamed for a little bit. While she was contemplating how to convince Nym to take her to the library, Roswitha watched the clouds roll in over head. She thought she heard a dog bark. When a drop of rain hit her nose, she went inside to day dream there instead. 

Nym was at the breakfast table eating toaster waffles and scrambled eggs despite it being nearly noon. “Want a waffle?” she asked Roswitha. 

“Sure,” said Roswitha. “Would you like to go to the library with me?” 

Nym thought about it as she chewed on a waffle. “Food first, but then sure.” 

It had begun to pour, but they merely pulled on wellies and coats and opened up umbrellas as they began the walk to the library. Nym stopped suddenly at one point, and Roswitha stopped too. “What’s the matter?” Roswitha asked. 

“Thought I saw a grim,” said Nym, laughing at herself. “Boy, I want to be an auror, but I didn’t think it would make me paranoid. C’mon then — not even a symbol of death will stop us today!”

—

Pappa returned on a Friday, early enough that he was able to take her to boxing. Annie introduced herself, sizing Pappa up when she did. Annie invited him to join them, a gleam in her eye. She must have gotten better at enticing others to the sport, or maybe Pappa just wasn’t as good at resisting as Andromeda was. 

“You do this three times a week?” he asked her when they left. Pappa was drenched with sweat. “Oh, to be young again.” 

“You aren’t that old!” Roswitha protested. 

“I’m twenty-seven,” he said. “Nearly twenty-eight. I’m practically ancient.” 

“When do you turn twenty-eight?” Roswitha asked, studying him. In truth, Pappa didn’t really look that much older than Nym. For that matter, neither did Andromeda or Ted or Narcissa.

“August 1,” said Pappa taking her hand. “When do you turn nine?”

“The same,” said Roswitha easily, swinging their attached hands. 

“Truly?” Pappa asked, stopping short. 

“Truly,” said Roswitha. “It said so on my certificate.” 

“Well, aren’t you the best birthday present I’ve ever had,” said Pappa leaning down and kissing her hair. Then he pulled back and dramatically wrinkled his nose. “Though, at present, I think we both need a bath. Let’s hurry home, darling heart.” 

When they were bathed and had had elevenses, Pappa took a look at the House’s ward with her help. Since she wore the ring, he explained, and was Master of the House, he needed her there to examine the wards for the first time. 

“Oh,” said Roswitha, feeling a cold surprise echo over her body. She twisted the ring on her finger. “Should I give the ring to you, then?” 

Pappa smiled at her, very kindly. “You know, darling heart? I don’t think you should.” He waved a hand around the House. “Ted says you’re in excellent health, and it seems the House chose you for a good reason. I couldn’t have dreamt up all this light and the colors on the walls or the conservatory. Besides all that, unless you attempt to destroy it or something similar, once the House chooses its Master I don’t think it _can _be reversed.”

“Oh,” said Roswitha again, feeling less afraid now and more reverent. “Well, I’ll be the best Master of House I can be, Pappa, I promise.” 

“I know you will.” Pappa leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Come, now, let’s have a look at the wards.” 

They had to go down to the basement to do so, disconcerting the elves a little bit. Pappa insisted, as wards were usually started in the foundation of a structure. Roswitha mostly watched as Pappa cast spells that caused the cellar to light up in fantastic colors. “Do I need to cast any spells?” Roswitha asked when he had paused to consider what he had learned. 

Pappa smiled at her. “You haven’t got a wand, yet, my darling heart.”

Roswitha pulled her wand from up her sleeve. “Yes, I have.” 

Pappa blinked rapidly at her. “How on earth…?”

“I got it after I found out about my inheritance,” said Roswitha, offering a little shrug. “Was I not supposed to?” 

“I’m afraid not,” said Pappa. He was shaking his head, but wore a bewildered kind of smile. “Typically, one does not get a wand of their own until they are eleven. Though, perhaps I’m being too sanctimonious — I was certainly allowed to use a wand before I had my own.” 

Here he became a little serious and took her shoulders in his hands. “Though, I must ask, my darling heart that you do not do magic without me around. You may stumble on something dangerous, and I would like to be there to help you if I may.”

Roswitha frowned. “I would have to move spell practice to the evenings —”

“You are already practicing magic?” Pappa asked, blinking. 

“Well, I had a wand,” said Roswitha, shrinking down. “It seemed silly to learn I was a witch and not to _practice_ how to do magic.” 

Pappa relaxed, all tension releasing from his shoulders, and laughed. “Yes, I suppose that does make sense. I also suppose, you taught yourself the best you could. But I’m here now, and I want to help take care of you, my darling heart. Can I have your promise that you won’t do magic without me around?”

Roswitha nodded easily. “I promise,” she said. 

Pappa’s smile practically blinded her, especially in the dark basement. “Good. Now, even though your grandfather did quite a bit of bad work here, I think I know how to get these wards straightened out, but I shall have to call on some reinforcements. I think we can safely plan our trip to the zoo for next weekend.” 

“And for the next week?” Roswitha asked, as they left the cellar.

“I’ll return to France,” said Pappa, breezily, taking her hand . “And you will spend some time with your cousin Draco.”

— 

Draco, as it turned out, was positively _delighted_ to have a cousin his own age. 

“I’ve asked Mother and Father for a brother or sister,” said Draco in a conspiratorial whisper on her first day at Malfoy Manor. “But they haven’t given me one.” 

“There’s a rather lot more that goes into such an activity, my son,” said Cousin Lucius from the other side of the room where he was writing a letter. Narcissa only snuffled into a handkerchief, which Roswitha suspected hid a laugh.

Malfoy Manor stretched on for ages. On her first day there Draco wanted to show her the quidditch pitch,but Lucius objected firmly, as there fell a great downpour over Malfoy Manor. Instead, Draco showed her all the nooks and crannies where he liked to play or hide from his house elf minder. 

“You shouldn’t be so mean to Dobby,” said Roswitha as they returned to the playroom and Draco pulled out a set of blocks and soldiers. 

“He’s only an elf,” said Draco around a scoff. 

“But his magic helps feed the Manor,” Roswitha protested as they began to build a fortress together. “Besides it’s just nasty to be so mean to someone whether they’re an elf or not.” 

Draco frowned. “Really?” 

“Really,” said Roswitha, nodding. “If you acted like that to _me_ or _my _elves, I’d never speak to you again.” 

Draco frowned a little deeper as he thought for a moment. But then Roswitha asked, “Are you defending the castle or laying siege?”

“Siege, please,” said Draco, creeping forward. 

They played until a house elf called them to change for supper. Roswitha, who had never changed for supper and therefore did not know what to wear, asked Narcissa to help her pick out the right outfit. Narcissa parsed over Roswitha’s clothing, letting out sigh after sigh. “Oh my, it seems your father has only sent you with play clothes and trousers at that. Not to worry, my dear, I thought this might happen, so I prepared some suitable clothing from my own childhood. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping and rectify this situation.” 

“Am I in trouble?” Roswitha asked, watching as Narcissa held up one pair of her trousers between her thumb and her forefinger with an expression akin to disgust. 

Narcissa looked to her with a delicately raised eyebrow. “No, but your father is.” 

Narcissa helped her dress in a green frock that had been her own and a matching set of green dinner robes embroidered with fawns and narcissus flowers. Narcissa then brushed out Roswitha’s hair until it shone, just pinning it out of her face, lecturing all the while about the importance of hair and what certain styles might signify. Roswitha was not to wear her hair up, for instance, until she came out into society at fourteen or fifteen. 

“We may have to hold you back until you are sixteen even,” said Narcissa, tutting, “if I cannot teach you the proper manners.” 

“I’ll do my best,” said Roswitha, if only so the conversation about manners and hair would end. 

“Your father has talked about sending you back to a primary school,” Narcissa added, at last pulling away and allowing Roswitha to stand. “I hope, should he do so, he chooses one that will allow you to study etiquette of wizarding society.” 

Roswitha sort of hoped Pappa wouldn’t send her back to primary school at all. She hadn’t had a very good time at her last one, but she also recognized that Pappa didn’t want her alone all the time. And, if spending time at Malfoy Manor always meant using the right fork, as she did at supper that night, primary school might be the lesser of the two evils. Now, Roswitha understood why Draco required so many places to hide in the manor.

The next day, they did as Narcissa promised and went shopping for clothes. Thankfully, the weather was still quite lousy, so Roswitha wouldn’t have been able to run around outside. In anycase, shopping turned out to be quite the activity in itself, and Roswitha found herself drooping for want of a nap by the end of it. Narcissa tutted, but indulged her, letting Roswitha rest when they got back to the manor. 

When the weather cleared up, Roswitha and Draco were free to play around on the grounds, which were quite extensive. Draco even lent her a broom so they might go flying. “But you mustn’t tell Mother or Father,” he said. “I’m not supposed to fly without their permission.” 

Even though the weather had cleared, Narcissa would still draw their attention from time to time, to have lessons in French or to read stories together or something else she found useful. Lucius would occasionally participate as well, if he was home from his own work. What Lucius did, Roswitha could not divine, nor did she feel comfortable asking him. 

There was something about Lucius that Roswitha could not explain that unnerved her just slightly. It couldn’t be that he was a man, for Pappa was a man and so was Ted, and Roswitha felt at ease around both of them. Or perhaps it was that he was a man, but not a very nice one. He seemed to look at her an awful lot, and not with the sort of astounded awe Ted had given, but something colder. Roswitha thought Lucius loved Narcissa and Draco, though, and his love for them was eased Roswitha’s discomfort in his presence.

Her time with the Malfoys passed quickly, though not as quickly as had her time at the Tonks home. Roswitha thought it was nice that Draco always wanted to play with her, though it could be a little annoying when Roswitha wanted to do something quiet or alone. It was nice that Narcissa took an interest in her the way no one ever had before, except maybe Pappa, though he was gone an awful lot. She even came around to Lucius, when, on the last morning of her stay, Roswitha went to the sitting room before breakfast to finish her book before Draco started on about flying that day as the weather appeared to be clear. 

Roswitha paused in the door of the sitting room, however, when she saw Lucius in a morning robe, reclining as he read the morning paper. 

He looked up at her after a moment, “It is not polite to linger in doorways. Come and sit down; I do not bite, child.” 

“Thank you, cousin,” said Roswitha, entering and taking a seat on a plush settee. 

There, they sat in silence, reading their own material until the breakfast bell rang. 

— 

When Pappa came to Malfoy Manor to take her home, he came with the gladdest of tidings — they had been connected to the Floo Network, so he could continue working for his current employer while still living in England. 

Narcissa had them stay for luncheon so that they might talk, and they did, of many things. Roswitha’s schooling, lessons for etiquette, Pappa’s work, and a strange inquiry at the ministry. 

“What, by Odin, could they want from you?” Lucius asked as luncheon concluded. “You haven’t been in England in over nine years.”

“That was precisely it,” said Pappa, nodding. “I’d disappeared toward the end of the war, and well, you know how it is with a family name like Black. I showed them my arms, though, and gave leave to check the records at La Pucelle d'Orléans and that was that.” 

There was a lot left unsaid at the end of that sentence, and when Roswitha and Draco tried to ask, they were sent to pack Roswitha’s trunk. They went upstairs to fetch it, for the elves had already packed it in totality, and returned to find their parents waiting by the floo. They had their goodbyes, exchanging words, kisses and embraces — Draco kissed her cheek without hesitation, she found, and Lucius and Pappa exchanged the same sort of kisses that Pappa did with Narcissa. 

Pappa was still quite tired, and Roswitha found herself yawning because of it.They cuddled up in the sitting room with a copy of _The Worst Witch_ — which Pappa declared a very silly book — and resolved to visit the zoo on Saturday. When it came time to go to bed, though, Roswitha found Pappa standing in the doorway of the master bedroom. 

“Are you alright, Pappa?” Roswitha asked. 

He turned to look at her. “I’m alright, my darling heart. This was my parents’ bedroom when I was young — it feels strange sleeping here now.” 

“Do you want to sleep in your old bedroom, then?” Roswitha asked, coming to take his hand. 

“No, that’s quite alright,” said Pappa, stroking her hair with his free hand. He leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head. “And quite impossible as you have my old room.” 

“Oh…” said Roswitha. “I picked that room because I really liked it. I suppose that makes us the same, a bit at least.” 

Pappa chuckled. “I suppose so. And I think we had both better get to bed if we want to leave the house at a reasonable time tomorrow.” 

Roswitha paused before she looked up at him. “Pappa, would you like me to stay with you tonight? So you don’t have any nightmares?”

Pappa grinned at her. “Aren’t I supposed to offer that to you?”

“Well, you can fight my nightmares, and I can fight yours, and your bed is bigger besides all that.” Roswitha gave a little shrug.

Pappa smiled and bent to kiss her forehead. “Well, alright, in you come.”

Roswitha smiled and bounded into the master bedroom, the light flooding on when she did. Pappa went into the bathroom to wash up and change for the night, and Roswitha snuggled into the bed. She examined Pappa’s nightstand which had several magazines on it, all to do with curse breaking. Roswitha picked up one of the English ones and began to read as Pappa got ready.

When Pappa left the bathroom he chuckled at the site of her. He reached for his leather bag and pulled out a slim book with a ribbon around it. "I'll trade you," he said.

"Yes, please," said Roswitha, holding out her hands.

Pappa took the magazine from her and gave her the book. When Roswitha took away the ribbon she found herself looking at a book called _Le Petit Prince_.

"Is it all in French?" Roswitha asked, opening up the cover.

"Yes," said Pappa. "And I know you've only been learning for a few months, but I thought we could read it together. It might help you learn. It's a lovely story -- I first read it when I was your age."

Roswitha smiled at him. "I love it, thank you, Pappa. Can we read a little tonight?"

"Just a little," he said, still smiling. He took the book and opened it to the first page, his soft voice recounting the story such that Roswitha barely heard past the first page. She did think, though, that she felt a little kiss on her head and the covers tucked in around in.


	3. The Reptile House and Other Snakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roswitha finally manages a trip to the zoo, after they invite along an old friend of her Pappa's, where Roswitha learns it's not okay to talk to snakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it weird that I picture Hale Appleman for Severus Snape? (Colin Morgan plays Regulus in my mind.)

Pappa still had to work, but now that they had a floo he went back and forth easily. He made sure Roswitha had the floo address and knew how to use the fireplace properly in case she ever needed to get a hold of him. But he was home now, each night, and they read from _Le Petit Prince_ together. When the weekend arrived, Pappa told her to dress comfortably, for the day had at last arrived. Roswitha couldn't help but hum to herself as she pulled on a pair of trainers and a comfortable dress (despite Pappa's lax approach to her clothing, she doubted he was ready to see her in shorts).

Bits packed them a large lunch in Roswitha's cold basket, and Plop found a suitable blanket that they could spread out for a picnic, which they stuffed in Roswitha's bottomless satchel.

They flooed to Diagon Alley because Pappa needed to exchange some money into pounds -- and since he was uncomfortable when she talked about her own money, Roswitha did her best not to mention that she had enough money to get them into the zoo every day for a week at least. Thankfully, business at Gringotts did not take long at all thanks to a counter where they could exchange currency in a ludicrously packed drawer. They left Gringotts hand in hand and walked down the street chatting excitedly, so excitedly in fact that they bumped right into someone.

"Terribly sorry," said Pappa, his good cheer not extinguished. "Didn't look -- Severus!"

The other man, who had looked quite cross at having nearly been bowled over looked up at the mention of his name, and his face immediately went blank. "Regulus..." he whispered. "What...?"

"I imagine you, too, thought I might have died," said Pappa, ducking his head a little. "I had some sort of accident, and then a problem with my memory -- it's really too much to explain a moment. Sorry to have shocked you."

"I -- well, where have you been all these years?" Severus asked.

"France," said Pappa, squeezing Roswitha's hand as she began to fidget. He brought her in front of him, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Le Havre -- working as a curse breaker, but if I'd known all that waited for me, I would have been back much sooner. Severus, I think I ought to introduce you -- this is my daughter, Roswitha Black. My darling heart, this is Severus Snape; we went to school together, and he'll be your potions master at Hogwarts."

"Hello Master Snape," said Roswitha, looking up at him.

He looked back at her with a sort of awed expression -- a little like Pappa had looked at her when he had first seen her, only less intense. "A daughter?" Severus asked, looking up at Pappa.

"Yes," said Pappa, tearing his gaze from Roswitha as well. "Are you at Hogwarts for the summer? I would like to catch you up on everything, Severus. I'd always wondered what had happened to you."

"I'm at my private residence for the break," said Master Snape, looking back at Pappa. His eyes were intense and unwavering -- Roswitha thought it was a little like how Lucius looked at Narcissa. "But you must still be at your family home, yes?"

"You could come with us," said Roswitha, looking between the two of them. "Have you ever been to the zoo before, Master Snape?"

Severus turned to her. "It would be 'Professor Snape,' child. And I have not. I never had occasion to go as a child."

"Neither have I," said Roswitha, nodding with all seriousness. "Nor has Pappa. But you are really welcome to come with us -- especially since you're Pappa's friend."

"I thank you for your offer, Miss Black," said Severus, giving her a quirk of a smile. "But --"

"Aren't we friends, Severus?" Pappa asked, his own small smile forming. "Gaps in correspondence and memory notwithstanding."

"We are friends," said Severus, quirking an eyebrow. "But I would not wish to interrupt quality time between father and daughter."

"There's a reptile house," said Roswitha. She was a little wary of having to share her Pappa, but thought of getting a stepfather excited her. Even with all the family had gained, lately, she would rather have liked more.

"Roswitha, darling heart, I must teach you to take no for an answer," said Pappa, gently pinching her side.

Severus looked amused, however. "A reptile house? Indeed, that might tip the scales of things."

Pappa rolled his eyes. "Really, Severus?"

"Really." Severus drew his wand from up his sleeve and tapped his robe thrice so that it transformed into a short jacket. His clothing underneath, a green, pinstriped shirt with dark trousers would pass enough in muggle London. "I suppose for the promise of a reptile house, I am at your disposal."

Pappa beamed at Severus, and once again took Roswitha by the hand. Then, he pulled back, looking a little sheepish. "I suppose," said Pappa, "this would be a bad time to admit that I do not know precisely where the London Zoo is."

"I do!" Roswitha pulled a map of London from her bag. "Nym got me one and we marked off where the zoo is when we were at the library."

"I shall have to thank Nymphadora then," said Pappa, looking at the map. "Well, this is back near Islington, I see."

Severus came to look over Pappa's shoulder and pointed out a marker. "There are the rose gardens. I believe you've been there, Regulus?"

"I have." Pappa handed the map back to her, letting Roswitha tuck it away before taking her hand firmly. "Right then, my darling heart, take a deep breath."

Roswitha did as she was directed, and a sensation came upon her almost like being squeezed through a tube. Darkness descended on her for just a moment, and then when light returned, Roswitha found herself standing in a small corner of Queen Mary's Rose Garden. "What was that?" Roswitha asked, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light.

"Apparation," said Pappa, smiling down at her. "Much faster than most travel, and you don't need a fireplace. Are you alright, my darling heart?"

Most of the light spots had faded from her vision, so Roswitha nodded. "Yes, I think so. Is that Professor Snape?"

Severus was indeed walking toward them, hands in his jacket pocket. "This way, I think," he said, nodding toward a path in the garden.

Roswitha raced ahead, doing a cartwheel on the path.

"Stay where I can see you!" Pappa called, falling in step with Severus.

There were not that many people in the garden at the moment, but Roswitha still turned back to make sure they could see each other. Pappa had fallen into step with Severus and walked and talked with the other man. They made a handsome couple, Roswitha thought. Roswitha paused for a moment to smell a particularly vibrant rose, letting them catch up to her before they walked on together toward the zoo.

Pappa bought three tickets at the window before anyone could object, and Severus rolled his eyes and accepted a map from the attendant.

"Hmmm," said Severus as he studied the map. "It would seem we could either see the reptiles first or last."

"Last," said Roswitha, firmly. "You always save the best for last."

Severus smiled, just slightly, saying, "Indeed, that is how the saying goes."

The zoo went in a sort of circle, so they started to one side and began to walk around. Roswitha was allowed to guide the way around, and the adults never seemed to stop unless she wanted to. Roswitha didn’t mind being in charge, but the two adults didn’t really seem to be enjoying themselves. As their whispered conversations went on, they appeared grimmer and grimmer. They really only seemed to snap out of their gloom when Roswitha paused by the lion enclosure to admire the pride. “I want one,” she said with great finality.

“No,” Pappa retorted instantly, looking up from his conversation with Severus.

Roswitha pouted. “Please?”

“No,” said Pappa, more firmly. “No lions, and no nundus either.”

Roswitha cocked her head to one side. “What’s a nundu?” 

Pappa blinked rapidly and his mouth dropped open, allowing Severus to cut into the conversation. “Perhaps you ought to get her a snake, Regulus. If only for the sake of house pride.” 

“Our house sigil has greyhounds on it,” Roswitha replied, climbing down from where she was looking down at the lions and taking her father’s hand. “If I mayn’t have a lion, may I have a greyhound?” 

Pappa only rolled his eyes, tugging her away from the lions and on to the next exhibit. “You already have two cats and an owl. You do not need any more pets.” 

“But the cats belong to the house and help keep pests away, and I need Hedwig to send letters.” Not that Roswitha loved Hedwig any less because of it. She had quite missed her beloved owl when she had gone to stay with her cousins over the past few weeks. Roswitha turned to Severus to ask his opinion on dogs and found he was quite far away. Roswitha reached out and took his hand. 

Severus looked a little startled at the gesture, but Roswitha squeezed his hand saying, “You were becoming a little lost. I had to make sure we didn’t lose you.” 

“Thank you, child,” said Severus, his look softening. “I appreciate not being lost.” 

“Very good,” said Roswitha, seriously. “Now, do you like dogs?”

Severus hummed. “I do not dislike dogs, but I have never had the pleasure of knowing one I especially liked.” 

“You are not getting a dog,” Pappa insisted. 

They talked more about pets as they continued around. It turned out that Roswitha was not allowed to have a penguin, a giraffe, a skunk (“Sweet Frigg, my darling heart, why would you _want_ one?”), or a kangaroo. Severus brought the conversation back around to snakes, and Pappa only mocked glared at him. 

“Severus, I don’t care if you teach there,” said Regulus, “Dumbledore likely has not changed the pet restrictions in the past ten years.”

“But a head of house may overrule if she or he feels the student can adequately care for said pet.” Severus grinned showing his teeth. “And _I_ am the head of Slytherin House.”

“What if I’m not in Slytherin?” Roswitha asked.

“Not to worry, my darling heart,” said Pappa, bending to kiss her cheek. “Everyone in our family has been in Slytherin since we first started attending Hogwarts in the thirteenth century. You are still not allowed to get a snake.” 

Roswitha felt her heart begin to race.She stopped short, stopping Severus and Pappa with her. “But what if I’m not? Nym’s in Hufflepuff and Ted was in Ravenclaw, and what if I don’t get into Slytherin?” For some reason she did not understand, Roswitha began to cry. 

“Oh my darling heart.” Pappa tsked a little and pulled them to one side, pulling Roswitha in for a hug. “It does not matter to me if you get into Slytherin or into any other house. There is more to a person than their house, I promise you that.” 

Roswitha sniffed, trying to make her tears dry up. “And… and it really won’t make you upset if I get into another house?” 

Pappa brushed a hair out of her face and smiled. “I solemnly promise that I will not be upset if you sort into another house besides Slytherin.” 

Roswitha hugged him again, wrapping her arms around his neck. Pappa squeezed her tight around her waist. “Do you feel better?” Pappa asked. 

“Yes,” said Roswitha, pulling away. She still sniffled a little.

Severus pulled a handkerchief from up his sleeve and passed it to her. “Dry your eyes, child, and blow your nose.” 

Roswitha obeyed, mopping up her face and blowing her nose, and then blowing it again at Pappa’s insistence. She held up the handkerchief when she was done, but it was quite spoiled, and Roswitha guessed it would not be polite to hand it back. 

Severus took it anyway, and then offered out his hand to her. “The famed reptile house is up next, and I would dearly love to see what it’s about.” 

“Reptiles, of course,” said Roswitha as she took Pappa in her other hand. 

The reptile house was humid, nearly to the point of feeling damp. Pappa and Severus both removed their jackets as Roswitha began with the closest exhibit to admire a group of turtles swimming around their enclosure. She turned to Pappa who preemptively answered, “No, you may not have a turtle.” 

Another mother with her young son turned to them and smiled. “This one’s just the same,” she said, gesturing to her son who she had by the hand. “Sees an animal and has to have it. It’s nice to see some older brothers taking their sister out. Good on you lads.” 

“Muuummm,” said the boy, practically dragging his mother away, who laughed at his antics.

“Brothers?” Pappa asked, his brow furrowed as he watched the mother walk away. “What on earth did she mean by that?” He turned to Severus for an explanation.

Severus only sighed. “Just take it as a compliment that you look younger than you are. Some people can’t see what’s in front of them is all.” 

Roswitha thought it was odd not to see something which was right in front of you, especially since she saw an iguana moving along a branch and she moved off to get a closer look. Her adults followed after her, Pappa still perplexed, and Severus still doing his best to ignore the woman and focus on the animals as well. 

The reptile house held many wonders indeed: there were many species of frog, there were alligators, there were lizards, and there were many, many snakes. The snakes ranged in size from so tiny she could not see them to long pythons that stretched for feet at a time. The pythons’ size was best exemplified by the fact that the zoo keepers had one out of its habitat in a kiddie pool covered with water. While some gave the pool a wide berth, Roswitha and several other brave children grew closer to examine the snake.

“Why’re you taking his skin off?” asked the boy who had pulled his mum away from the turtles earlier. 

“Well, snakes shed their skin naturally,” said one of the keepers, as they delicately peeled back a layer of the large snake’s skin. “But Bert here doesn’t have as much to rub up against in his enclosure, and he’s getting a little on in years and so it’s a little bit more difficult for him.”

“He’s been trying to shed for about a week,” another zookeeper picked up. “So, we just want to help him finish up the process. You can pet him if you like, two fingers, and go with his scales.” This last bit was said to Roswitha who was the latest to join the shedding party. 

Roswitha did as directed and used just two fingers to rub along Bert’s already shed skin, “Hello,” she whispered to him. “My name is Roswitha.”

The snake brought his head up, curiously, at the sound of her voice. “I was the only one of my clutch, and so that is all I have ever been called.” 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Only-One,” Roswitha said, still stroking his scales. “I was the only one of my clutch as well.”

“So there are no others who can speak like snakes?” Only-One asked, his tongue flicking out. “It was written into my blood by my mother that there were those who could, but I had never met one. I thought you were a myth.” 

“I am quite real, I promise,” said Roswitha, smiling. 

“Funny,” said one of the zookeepers drawing Roswitha’s attention away. “It almost looks like he’s actually listening to you.” 

The zookeeper broke Roswitha’s reverie and she realized everyone was staring at her. “Um, just pretend. I want a snake but my father won’t let me get one.”

One of the other children huffed. “Me neither.” He hissed at Only-One, and Only-One turned to him in surprise. 

“This one just speaks nonsense,” said Only-One. 

“I think it might just be me who can understand you,” said Roswitha, feeling a little sad. “I’m sorry Only-One.” 

“It is well, Speaker,” said Only-One, sounding not sad at all. “I can talk to other snakes, after all.”

“Roswitha,” called Pappa, drawing her attention. “Come along, now, darling heart. Lunch time.” 

It was near lunchtime. So, Roswitha turned back and said, “Goodbye, Only-One, my father’s calling me.” 

“Goodbye, Speaker,” said Only-One. “Come and see me again soon. And tell the others, I would like a mouse!”

“Thank you for letting me pet him,” said Roswitha to the zookeepers. “And Bert would like a mouse, please.”

The zookeepers laughed. “I’m sure he does!” said one. 

Roswitha smiled as brightly as she could before she walked over to her Pappa and took his proffered hand. Pappa seemed very calm as they walked out of the reptile house — his face was blank and his shoulders slack as they walked, hand in hand. But when they left the reptile house, Pappa steered them behind the structure to a dark corner. 

Severus stood in front of them, his wand in hand though not noticeable, mumbling spells to make them unseen and unheard. 

Pappa knelt in front of her, his expression unusually dour, and placed his hands on her arms, pinning her in. “Roswitha, I need you to be completely honest with me,” he said. “Have you always known you can talk to snakes?”

Roswitha thought about it for a moment. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “there have always been little ones, like garden snakes, but I didn’t think it was important at all. Did I do something wrong, Pappa?”

Pappa sighed and shook his head. “No, my darling heart, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that, to a wizard, being able to talk to snakes is an unusual talent. It doesn’t happen to very many people. And the last person who could talk to snakes was not a very good person at all. People might think that you’re… you’re his somehow.” 

“But I don’t want to be,” said Roswitha. She felt her tears returning. “I’m your daughter, I don’t want to be anyone else’s.” She fell into his arms and wrapped herself around Pappa tightly. 

“I’ll tell you something, my darling heart,” said Pappa, as he hugged her just as tightly. “They cannot have you. You’re mine now, I won’t let them have you.” 

“I love you, Pappa,” Roswitha muttered. 

“I love you, too, my darling heart,” said Pappa as he pulled away. He wiped at one of her stray tears which had managed to fall and said, “My darling heart, it is not wrong that you can talk to snakes, but I must ask that you keep it as secret as you can.”

Roswitha nodded. “Alright, Pappa, I’ll keep it a secret.” 

“Good.” Pappa smiled brightly at her. “Now, shall we have some luncheon. I’m sure some food and drink will help those tears of yours.” 

Severus cancelled all the spells he had cast just a moment ago, and Roswitha reached up to take his hand when he put his wand away. “Thank you, Professor Snape,” she said, as he took her hand. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, looking down at her. Then he sighed a little, saying, “Child, I think under the circumstances, you may call me Severus.” 

“And you may call me Roswitha,” she said in turn, smiling at him. “If that weren’t already allowed.” 

Severus grinned a little. “You’re too kind, dear girl.” 

They found a shady spot in a park outside the zoo and laid out the blanket and unpacked the basket which was full of good things. Thankfully, no one was watching as they did, or they surely would have been awed to find what the small basket could hold. As they ate scotch eggs and salads and cold ham pulled from the bone and fruit (which Severus insisted she have a little of, even though Roswitha did not like the little seeds in strawberries), they talked of this and that, and then children from another family approached and asked Roswitha to come and play with them. Roswitha played football, watching sometimes as the other parents chatted with Pappa and Severus. 

Other children gathered around to play as well, from families who were pinicking to children who seemed to come from close by. Roswitha liked playing, and some of the older kids remarked that she made a very good striker. After an hour or so, Pappa called her over as it was time to go. He and Severus had already packed up their basket and folded the blanket up. Pappa took her by one hand and Severus by the other, and, to her surprise, they began to walk home. 

“Severus doesn’t know where we live, silly goose,” said Pappa when she asked. “And it isn’t that far.”

It was not that far — Roswitha went running in the mornings and had gone further distances certainly. But, they had just been to the zoo and out of doors most of the morning, and Roswitha was full of lunch, and by the time they reached the start of the row at Grimmauld Place, she felt herself drooping. 

“A nap, I think for you, my darling heart,” said Pappa, squeezing her hand gently. 

“I’m not that tired,” said Roswitha around a yawn. 

Pappa and Severus both chuckled. “A nap will not hurt, my darling heart,” said Pappa. “And you’ll feel much better for having taken one.” 

Roswitha did feel tired. “Alright,” she agreed. 

“Impressive wards,” Severus remarked, as they came upon the house. “No fidelius?” 

“There was one,” said Pappa. “But I had to remove it in order to get someone in to install the floo. They were a mess. I’ve redone some of them, but some are more ancient than me or my father. Mostly it was about getting everything to communicate. But, come be welcome.” Pappa and Roswitha climbed the steps first, and when Pappa opened the door, he spoke his final words, and Severus climbed up after them. 

Pappa sent Roswitha up to take a nap while he offered Severus some refreshment. Roswitha, yawning again, waved goodbye, and went to her room. It was cool and dark. Roswitha felt oddly dirty, so she washed her face and hands, and felt much better before she laid down on her bed to take an afternoon nap. 

When she woke, Roswitha found several hours gone and that Pappa had been right: she did feel much better. She straightened her clothes and went downstairs to see who was about. To her surprise, she found them not in the sitting room or the music room, or even in the drawing room. Instead, Pappa and Severus both sprawled out on the stairs leading down to the entry hall. 

“It all comes back to who I can trust, I suppose,” said Pappa, with a sigh. He scrubbed the heel of his palm over his eye. “Meda likely wouldn’t care, but if I tell her, I have a feeling it will come out to Cissa eventually — which means it will get around to Lucius.” 

Severus hummed. “Yes, I could see that being a problem. Lucius is loyal to his family, but if there was something that could advance them…” 

Pappa turned to Severus meeting his eye. “Do you think the same as I do? That the Dark Lord isn’t gone?” 

Severus said nothing to this at first. Instead, he rolled up his shirt sleeve, though Roswitha could not see his forearm, except for the smallest bit of black on pale skin. “It’s faded,” he said as Pappa reached over and traced his fingers down, “but it’s never gone away. He never marked you, did he?” 

Pappa shook his head. “No, never. It’s odd — I washed up in France during his height, before he was defeated. If I hadn’t lost my memories, I probably would have gone straight home and been slaughtered for my return.”

“And you don’t remember what happened during that time?”

“No — I came to in Le Havre when I was eighteen, and most memories after turning seventeen aren’t there. There are little things, here and there. But I don’t remember ever meeting _him_ or any of the trials. Sometimes there will be little glimpses of things — emotions mostly — fear, really.” Pappa sighed and scrubbed his eyes again. “I’m sorry — I didn’t ask you here to dredge up old memories and fears. It’s certainly not how I planned to catch up with an old friend.” 

Severus snorted. “Well, if anything, we resemble old times. Half way through prefect rounds, and you would just collapse on the stairs, declaring yourself to be done.”

Pappa ducked his head and chuckled. “I think I gave that up for my last year.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Severus. He sighed. “I wasn’t even supposed to be a prefect, really, but the others would skive off so much, and there were you, lying down on staircases.” 

Pappa raised a hand and cupped Severus’ face. “I remember other things happening on prefect rounds as well. Dark corners, you and I.” 

“Mmm.” Severus’ dark eyes turned to Pappa. “You were sixteen then, and I was nearly eighteen. It was so hard to resist you.” 

“You didn’t do a very good job,” said Pappa, inching ever closer. “I seem to recall getting snogged quite thoroughly in that dark corner.” 

Severus rolled his eyes, but he too inched closer. “Oh, so _that _you remember.”

“Yes,” said Pappa. “And just think, now I am twenty-seven. You needn’t worry about propriety — you can kiss me however you like.” 

“Well then,” said Severus, and he leaned closer.

Roswitha, careful not to make a sound, still grimaced and looked away. Kissing! She hadn’t imagined getting a stepfather would involve kissing. “I might have known,” she said when she was a safe distance away. Narcissa and Lucius kissed, as did Andromeda and Ted. Well, if it was in the service of increasing her family, Roswitha could live with kissing. She would not watch it, however and instead went to read in the library. 

Pappa came and found her some time later. “There you are, my darling heart,” he said with an easy smile. “We have a guest for supper, so I must ask that you behave very nicely, if for some reason you were planning on being different than usual.”

“Is Severus staying for supper then?” Roswitha asked. 

“He is,” said Pappa, nodding. “But we also have another guest who we’ve invited over this evening.” 

“Alright,” said Roswitha, nodding along. “Are you and Severus dating now?” 

Pappa grimaced. “I had hoped to do this later, with ice cream.”

“There can still be ice cream,” said Roswitha easily, as they began to descend the stairs. 

“Alright, then, yes, I think that Severus and I are dating now,” said Pappa, laughing a little. “As long as there can still be icecream later.” 

When they made their way down to the dining room, Roswitha found Severus back in his robe talking to another man in robes. The other man was old, as evidenced by his neatly kept, though long white beard and long white hair, and wore bright blue robes that matched his keen eyes. They were embroidered with thread that seemed to move, of a series of clouds that passed at the hem. The new man and Severus were talking quietly, but stopped abruptly when Roswitha and Pappa entered. 

“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore,” said Pappa, nudging Roswitha. 

“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore,” Roswitha echoed. 

“Good evening,” said Professor Dumbledore, eyes full of mirth and twinkles. 

“Professor, this is my daughter, Roswitha. Roswitha, Professor Dumbledore is the Headmaster of Hogwarts,” Pappa explained. 

“Thank you for joining us for dinner, Professor,” said Roswitha, looking up at the old man with great interest. He must have been at least one hundred, she thought. 

Professor Dumbledore smiled kindly at her. “I’m very pleased at being invited — it is rare I am invited to dinner without pretext anymore.” 

Roswitha nodded very seriously at his statement. “I understand. I don’t have very many friends to invite me places, either. I do have cousins now, but they all want me to learn manners.”

Severus pinched his brow between his thumb and his forefinger, as if he had a headache. 

Dumbledore smiled though. “Manners are a difficult thing, I agree, and much worse when sprung on you unexpectedly. Your father tells me that you only learned of being a witch quite recently, and learned of him even more so.” 

Roswitha nodded and began to explain the situation as she had a few times now. They transitioned into the dining room while she did, and Kreacher began to bring up some nibbles with which they appetized themselves. Professor Dumbledore engaged her, and Pappa and Severus, throughout dinner, talking of this and that — important advances in curse breaking and charms, as well as a recent paper Severus had published. He asked Roswitha about what she liked to read and in what lessons did she engage. Over all he was quite attentive to all parties and a good conversationalist. 

Roswitha _almost_ didn’t take note when the turned the conversation toward her again. Almost. 

“Your father tells me you have a rather unique ability, Miss Black,” said Dumbledore, turning to her after he had finished discussing potions with Severus. 

Roswitha blinked rapidly at the change in topic and turned to her father. “I thought that was supposed to be a secret.”

“It is,” said Pappa, looking quite serious. “But Severus and I discussed things a little bit while you were asleep, and we think we can trust Professor Dumbledore. He just wants to talk with you a little bit about your parseltongue and, and your life before you came to live here.”

“Well, alright,” said Roswitha, turning over the contradiction in her mind to make sense of it. She had not, completely, done so in the seconds it took to turn back to Professor Dumbledore, but all the same, she said, “Yes, sir, I can talk to snakes.” 

“And you have always been able to do so?” Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes no longer twinkling, but still quite kind. When Roswitha nodded, he also asked, “What is your earliest memory of such a thing?” 

“Erm,” Roswitha thought of a moment. “I think when I was five? I talked to a garden snake while I was helping with chores.”

“And what did the two of you discuss?”

“The garden, sir, naturally.” 

The three adults chuckled at this and came back to focus smiling. 

“Very well,” said Professor Dumbledore. “And did you have a lot of chores at the orphanage?” 

_What did that have to do with talking to snakes? _Roswitha wondered. “No more than anybody else had,” she said after a moment. 

Professor Dumbledore looked her right in the eye. “Let me ask this way then: what sort of chores were they? And how often?”

Roswitha went over then all in her mind. “Gardening,” she said, ticking off her fingers, “laundry, cooking (when we were old enough), dishes. That sort of thing. And we’d have to keep our own spaces tidy, of course, and keep our homework in order. We would trade off chores, but there was something to do every day, and everyone had to help.”

“Did you have any friends at the orphanage?”

“Sort of — no one ever stayed in one place long enough to be good friends, but I didn’t make enemies with anyone, certainly.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Professor Dumbledore, still smiling. “And did anyone else know about your magical abilities?”

Roswitha frowned, thinking about it, and shook her head. “I wound up on my school roof once, but everyone just thought I had been climbing. There were a few other things — people just explained away as something non-magical each time.”

“Never felt the urge to show off?” Professor Dumbledore asked.

“Well, doesn’t everyone?” Roswitha retorted, feeling Pappa pinch her for being rude. “Sorry, sir. But everyone _does_, once in a while. I didn’t know enough magic to show off, though, or even that I had magic.”

“And, may I ask, why did you leave the orphanage when you got your letter from Gringotts?” Professor Dumbledore paused and pursed his lips. “It seems that you did not have a bad time there, yet you chose another path.”

Roswitha, too, paused, trying to think of a way to put her words that wouldn’t be rude but still be matter-of-fact. “When you haven’t got anything,” said Roswitha, “you always sort of want. And when you’re an orphan, you really, really, haven’t got anything. It _wasn’t_ a bad lot, not really, they never hurt us or locked us in the closets. But it wasn’t _mine_. Everybody would always remind you that everything you touch belongs to someone else, through _their _generosity, _their _kindness, through _them_. And well… more than wanting things, I think all orphans want a place and a family most of all. That’s what I really went looking for. And it took a while, but now I have both.” 

“I am glad you found all you were looking for, Miss Black.” At last, Professor Dumbledore looked away from her and toward her father.

Roswitha felt a strange pressure lift off of her — one which must have mounted so slowly she didn’t notice. “Thank you, sir. And did I pass?”

Dumbledore’s eyes flew back to her in an instant. “Did you pass what, Miss Black?”

“That was a test, wasn’t it?” Roswitha furrowed her brows. “I’ve had teachers test me before, I know what it’s like — even if they don’t tell you when it’s a test. But, like, maths and stuff. Not whatever I was being tested on here.” 

Professor Dumbledore relaxed and even chuckled a little. “Well, maths and stuff are quite important. And, yes, you did pass.” 

“Then may we have dessert please?” Roswitha turned to her father. “I believe I was promised ice cream.” 

Pappa snorted. “So you were, my precocious one. Let us walk Professor Dumbledore out, however, before we indulge ourselves.”

Roswitha stood from her seat as gracefully as possible and walked with Pappa to escourt Professor Dumbledore to the front door. As Pappa opened it, Professor Dumbledore took an object from his robes that looked quite like a cigarette lighter, only instead of lighting up at the top when Professor Dumbledore flicked up the top, it called the light out of closest street lamp. 

“Curious,” Pappa remarked, eyeing the device. 

“Isn’t it?” Professor Dumbledore asked, beaming a little. “One of my own — I call it the deluminator. The light should flickering on again some time tonight, not to worry.”

Pappa held out his hand, and he and Professor Dumbledore shook on it. Professor Dumbledore then turned to Roswitha and offered to do the same. Roswitha felt a little silly shaking his hand like a grown up, but proud at the same time, to be considered in the same company as her father. Dumbledore then walked down their steps and disapperated once he reached the bottom. 

“When do I get to learn that?” Roswitha asked.

“When you are sixteen,” said Pappa, gently tugging her back into the house. “You get to take the test to get your apparation license when you are seventeen. Come along, now, darling heart, you want your ice cream, don’t you?” 

“Yes, please,” said Roswitha. 

The dining room table was already set with ice cream when they re-entered. Severus staid with them for dessert and then bid adieu. Roswitha didn’t think she was supposed to see, but she spied that Severus also gave Pappa a little kiss at the door. From there, the night proceeded like any other. Roswitha had a bath, she and Pappa read from _Le Petit Prince_ for a time before Pappa tucked her in, and she fell asleep. 

In the end, Pappa decided not to send her to school. He and Andromeda discussed it at length, and trying to get the proper documents from Roswitha's orphanage would lead to too many questions and state investigations, or else oblivating a lot of people. Pappa looked over her schedule and declared it to be just fine, since she had more lessons than he had at her age. Besides that, he agreed to send her to Narcissa twice a week for etiquette and to play with Draco. The only thing Pappa thought she should add to her schedule was something that taught her meditation -- he had melancholy, he explained, and sometimes meditation was the only thing that helped. With Andromeda's consultation, they signed Roswitha up for yoga classes on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in the local area. Severus was slightly disappointed, though as she had no science courses available to her. 

"Maths is a science," she told him. 

"Maths is maths," Severus retorted, frowning. "How on earth will you know anything about potions or the scientific method before you get to Hogwarts?"

"You could always teach me," Roswitha suggested, shrugging slightly. "We have a potion's lab in the garden, you know." 

As it was, Roswitha thought Severus might be her stepfather after long. That summer he spent at least one day a week at Grimmauld Place going out with Pappa or simply eating meals there. Severus also brought her books -- things he had read as a child, as well as beginning texts on potioneering he thought she should read. When Roswitha mentioned the potion's lab, though Severus decided it would be a project between the two of them (with Pappa's consultation, of course).

They set about cleaning up the room, dusting off the cobwebs, and scrubbing out the cauldrons there that had been so caked with potion. 

“I wonder why we have two,” said Roswitha as she cleaned. “Maybe for one for magic and one for mundane purposes.” 

Severus paused in his scrubbing, his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. “There’s another lab in the house?”

“Off the kitchen,” said Roswitha, nodding. “Bits calls it the still room.” 

Severus rolled his eyes a little, returning to scrubbing out a cauldron. “You make beer in a still room, child.” 

“Bits makes other things in there too,” Roswitha protested.

“In anycase,” Severus continued, around her protests, “house elf magic and wizarding magic do not mix well when casually added together. After we clean this room, we will be responsible for it, because if the house elves clean it there may be a disaster.” 

“Do I get to help brew potions then?” Roswitha asked, perking up. 

Her question gave Severus pause again. “I suppose,” he said. “Provided that they are simple potions, and we have your father’s permission. There will be assigned reading as well.”

“I like reading,” said Roswitha. She read almost everything she came into contact with — even all nine hundred pages of the etiquette book Andromeda had given her, though it had taken her a week or so to get through. 

“I’ve heard,” said Severus with a little snort. “Pay attention, now, don’t miss the crusts there.” 

Roswitha nodded and went back to scrubbing her cauldron. 

As if to contradict Severus, Pappa invited Roswitha to take apart his turntable and a wizarding wireless to see if they could get the turntable to work in the house. 

“I have lived too long being able to listen to whatever music I please to stop now,” said Pappa, as they examined the wires. 

It took them several weeks of on again, off again experimentation since Pappa was going back and forth between jobs. When at last they got it working, they played record after record, dancing in the sitting room together until the house grew dark around them. 

Severus was not all potions and no play, however. Before he returned to Hogwarts for the term, Severus appeared at Grimmauld Place while Pappa was at work. "Would you like to go and see a film?" he asked her. 

"Yes, please," she said. Rushing to get her shoes and satchel, she asked, "Should we firecall Pappa to let him know where we're going?" 

"I will do that," said Severus, pointing toward the stairs, "you go and make ready."

Roswitha went and pulled on her shoes and called for Bits to pack some food in the cool basket. After finishing his firecall, Severus told her they would need a blanket and something to sit on. They selected the picnic blanket and two well loved cushions to bring with them. Then, holding her to his side, Severus apparated them to a forest. 

"This is an odd place to show a film," said Roswitha as they walked along a muddy road, Severus still holding her hand. 

"They were expecting better weather," said Severus, dryly (even though the day was not). "And I imagine doing it outside makes it harder for people to find out you are showing films without a license. Do you like stories about King Arthur?"

"Yes," said Roswitha, minding a puddle in the road. 

They eventually came upon a large field where, in spite of the weather, there were many people spread out with their blankets or folding chairs. Roswitha found a nice spot for their blanket, and Severus helped her spread it out, before they took their seats. 

The first movie was a cartoon called _The Sword in the Stone_, which Roswitha liked very much, as it showed Arthur as a boy, not much older than her, who went by Wart. She watched, entranced, as Wart turned into a fish, a squirrel and a bird to learn about the world around him. When he drew the sword from the stone and became king, Roswitha grew a frown she could not seem to banish.

“Don’t like the movie?” Severus asked, looking over at her. 

Roswitha shook her head. “I liked it, I just felt back for Arthur at the end. It’s a shame that he had to become king and grow to be all responsible so soon.” 

Severus hummed at her assessment. “You’re quite responsible for your age, you know. I certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to wander around London on my own.”

“Were you allowed to wander around where you grew up?” Roswitha asked. 

“Yes,” said Severus, nodding thoughtful as he looked off past her shoulder. “But I was roaming around the local park and woods. Not a city as large as London. Besides, that was more than twenty years ago now — the world has become a little more dangerous. Let’s go to the bathroom before the next movie starts.” 

He rose, offering out her hand, and Roswitha look it. There were no installed facilities on the outdoor theatre, but there were several portable toilets and a sizable queue for them. 

As they waited a man drew close and gaped at them. “It can’t be — Severus Snape?” 

Severus turned to the man with a bit of a frown. “Mickey Smith.”

If the man noticed Severus’ reticence at all, he forged ahead in spite of it, reaching out to shake Severus’ hand. “Cor, it’s been some time, Severus. Is this your wee one?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roswitha, smiling, as she saw Severus’ face grow blank. “Did you go to school with Father?”

“That we did, young lady,” said Mickey smiling. “Your old dad was the smartest bloke around. I’ll tell you, Severus, we were all cheesed when you and Lily went off that fancy school in the north. You both got out before the mill went round the bend. I was lucky to play enough rugby to get to somewhere else and find another kind of work. How is Lily, by the by? You two still thick as thieves, I imagine.”

Severus swallowed, and hard, saying, “Lily died — some eight years ago. Her and her husband.” 

Mickey swore, some words Roswitha imagined she would not want to repeat later. “Dear God, _how_?”

“Bad business,” said Severus, squeezing Roswitha’s hand. “Not fit for young ears. Their daughter lived though — was sent off to stay with Petunia.” 

“And the girl’s alright?” Mickey asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

“I haven’t seen her in sometime,” said Severus, looking away. “You know Petunia never liked me. But a mutual friend tells me she’s just fine. It looks like we’re the top of the queue.”

Mickey nodded and offered his hand out again to shake. Severus shook it, if only to be rid of the man, and then Roswitha split off from him to go to the bathroom. They were both quiet when they made their way back to the blanket. 

Severus was very quiet as the reel began to play through. His eyes followed the screen very closely, but they looked glazed over. 

“Do you need a hug?” Roswitha asked. 

Severus blinked, and at last looked like he focused again. “No thank you, child. I have never been one much for hugs.”

“Is there anything else that makes you feel better?” Roswitha asked.

“Well,” said Severus, thinking on it. “A good cup of tea, a quiet place to read, and I do quite like this film. It first came out when I was fifteen — and my friend Lily took me to go and see it. It’s quite funny, you know.” 

“Should watch then?” Roswitha asked. 

Severus gave her a wan smile, but a genuine one nonetheless. “You’re very kind, child,” he said. “And yes, let’s watch.” 

For good measure, Roswitha took a thermos from her basket and they had tea as well. 

That summer saw her very first birthday party, held at Grimmauld Place with all the cousins, Severus and her father in attendance. Roswitha loved all the presents she received, of course, especially the diary Narcissa had gotten her, the accompanying pen Andromeda picked, and the sea glass bracelet Pappa had made for her with materials he had found on the French beaches over the years, and the copy of _The Sword in the Stone_ by T. H. White hidden in a puzzle box from Severus. But most of all, she just liked having family around (and, she mentally tallied that she was one step closer to having a stepfather, as Severus was around the next morning for breakfast). 

And as summer ended, it seemed like time began to pass in a great measure. Each day saw the same movements, through yoga or boxing or art museums. One moment, Roswitha had just turned nine. In the next, she was nearly eleven 

Summer set in warm, and Pappa asked her what she might want for her birthday. “Eleven only comes once,” he said a lot that summer. 

What Roswitha wanted more than anything was to get her Hogwarts letter. “What if it doesn’t come?” she asked more than once. 

Severus took to saying, “Well, then, we shall have to ship you off to the colonies.” 

To which, Roswitha would roll her eyes, saying, “Father, that isn’t funny.”

Severus, at being called “father” would always soften. “You are as magical as they come,” he would say, meeting her eye. “If Hogwarts won’t accept you, then there _are_ other options, my child.” 

As if to emphasize his point, she got a letter from Beauxbatons without even having to apply specially. Pappa said that he had gotten one too, as their family had come from France before the conquest, and plenty of their cousins had gone. 

At last, though, in the last week of June, an owl came through their front window during the breakfast hour and dropped a letter on the table address to _Miss Roswitha A. Black, Green Glass Room Fourth Floor, 12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England._

“Well, go ahead and open it, child,” said Severus from around the newspaper as Roswitha handled the parchment like it would crumble on her at any moment.

Roswitha broke the seal on the back, opening the letter and pulling out the parchment inside. 

_Dear Miss Black, we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

Roswitha didn’t read the rest as she leaped from her seat with a satisfactory whoop, ignoring her parents’ grimaces when she did. 


	4. The Attic and the Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roswitha begins to prepare for Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! This is a double update, so click on at the end of this chapter! I meant to upload this chapter on Wednesday, but it slipped my mind. 
> 
> Also: some folks are asking when the reveal will happen with the whole Ros/fem!Harry thing, and it will happen, but it will be a few books into the series. I'm building up to it, don't worry.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Roswitha tapped the end of her teaspoon making the spoon bowl tap against her saucer letting go a pleasant clink. She had been engaged in this activity for the past ten minutes, watching the clock all the while and listening for her parents. Gone ten now and they were still asleep. 

“If little Mistress is not wanting her tea anymore, that is being no reason to damage the saucer,” said Bits from over by the stove. 

“Harumph,” was all Roswitha could emit. She brought her empty cup and saucer over to the sink, though for Bits to take care of. 

The Malfoys had called yesterday to celebrate the receipt of the Hogwarts letters. Why yesterday, Roswitha couldn’t fathom. It had been days since the owls first came, and Roswitha had even already written back with her acceptance — Pappa had to fairly wrestle the letter from her in order to also sign as her parent. But ever since then, it had been burning a hole in her pocket. Pappa had been on a job the past few days, one he couldn’t get out of or hand off to an apprentice, so they would have to wait to go to Diagon Alley until the thirtieth, they said. Naturally, the Malfoys came over on the twenty-ninth, and Cousin Lucius had brought over some special sort of alcohol, and now her parents were still sleeping at ten in the morning. 

Bits gave her a hard stare. “Bits is thinking little Mistress is needing another cup of tea if she is scowling so much.” 

All at once, Roswtiha felt herself deflate. If a house elf was chiding her, maybe she might be making something over nothing. “I’m sorry Bits, I’m just tired.” 

As their parents had been drinking deep of… whatever it was, Roswitha and Draco had been allowed to stay up far later than they normally might have been. It was a difficult thing to come to an understanding, at ten-nearly-eleven, that bedtimes existed for a reason. Roswitha made sure to file that knowledge away for her time at Hogwarts. All at once a giddiness overtook her. _I’m going to Hogwarts_, she thought. 

“And perhaps, little Mistress is needing a nap,” said Bits, as he placed a fresh cup of tea and another two scones on the kitchen table. 

“I’ll just go to bed on time tonight,” Roswitha resolved. She sat down and enjoyed her cup of tea and her scones after making them up with clotted cream and jam. Roswitha did feel better after having the extra food and tea. After thanking Bits, she went off to find the last place the cats had been playing. 

When it became apparent that Freyja and Freyr had cleared the House of any pests, Kreacher began to make for them toys, one of which was simply a ball of yarn. Roswitha found the ball was by the fireplace in the sitting room. She crept as quietly as she could, for Freyja and Freyr were sleeping in the early morning sun streaming through the windows. Snatching up the ball, Roswitha crept back out, and not once did the floorboards creak. She thanked Frigg and the House in equal measure for making her good fortune possible. 

Making her way upstairs, Roswitha paused on the landing of the second floor, listening for her parents. When she heard nothing stirring from their room, or, indeed, the whole floor, Roswitha continued on upstairs, all the way up to the top. Then, she crossed the hall swiftly to a set of spiral, wrought iron stairs that she had done her best to ignore for her entire tenure at Grimmauld Place: the stairs which led up to the Attic.

Kreacher had warned her once that the Attic could be dangerous. “Little Mistress is being the Master of the House, but there is things in the attic that is being in the attic since the House is first being. They is very old, and they is not liking to be disturbed. And there is also being enchanted things in there.”

Rowitha frowned. This was not long after the elves had been arguing about the darkly enchanted objects in the House. “I thought you removed all of those to Gringotts.”

Kreacher shook his head. “Kreacher and Bits and Plop is removing all the ones they is _finding_. There is many that Kreacher and Bits and Plop is finding, but the House is being hiding many more things in the attic. Kreacher is not knowing what they are, so Kreacher is not knowing if they is dark.” 

Roswitha had only been eight then. But she would be eleven today. Besides that, she would take an extra precaution, by tying the string to the top of the staircase and only going as far as the ball would let her go. That way she wouldn’t get lost and she would find all that she needed to find. Roswitha held her breath as she climbed to the top of the stairs, and then…

An attic — the top of the house looked like an ordinary attic. The ceilings sloped, the wood and brick that made up the exterior of the House remained uncovered, and, yes, there were a great many objects hither and yon. 

“Then again,” Roswitha muttered to herself, “the House looks like a normal house until it doesn’t. May I have some light please?” 

Torches, mounted to the wall burst into flame. 

“Thank you,” said Roswitha, not at all startled by the sudden fire. “Please, try not to let anything else burn.” When she felt a murmur of agreement run up her spine, Roswitha let out a little bit of yarn and walked forward. With her one free hand, Roswitha removed the list from her pocket and flicked it out. “Let’s see,” she mumbled. 

The first part of the list detailed her uniform and Roswitha set out to find wherever clothing might be stored in the attic. She found, quite quickly, several wardrobes resting off to the side, pressed up under the eaves of the house. But, Roswitha also found the wardrobes to be stuffed with clothing of all kinds — colorful day robes, blouses, skirts, and ballgowns alike. Sorting through, though, she found all like pieces of clothing were kept together. It did take some work, but Roswitha found three sets of robes, blouses, knee length skirts, tights, stockings, a cardigan, and two jumpers, a pair of dragonhide gloves, a pair of black boots that fit her well, a black hat she liked the style of, and, at last, a black winter cloak with silver fastenings. 

Roswitha may have also tried on one of the ballgowns, just to see how she liked them. Then, of course, she realized she had a pile of clothing around her and no place to put all of it. Sighing, Roswitha put away the ball gown and closed up al the wardrobes before casting around for a trunk. She paused, turned back, and said aloud, “Please, don’t swallow this of all whole.” 

When the House sent a shiver of agreement up her spine, Roswitha resumed her search.

The house had many offerings for trunks. One appeared to have been expanded had a whole bedroom on the inside. Another allowed a set of bookcases to pop out. Others still had different enchantments allowing them to be larger than they appeared (one even had an entire armory inside). At last, Roswitha found one that was plain enough, though a little expanded to accommodate a few extra bits and bobs rather than her entire life so far. Roswitha returned to her piles of clothes and folded them so they fit neatly to one side of the trunk, then set off for the rest of her supplies. 

A pewter cauldron she found easily enough, though it would require a good scrub, and scales and phials were nearby. Roswitha was doing a comparison of telescopes when she heard her name called out. 

“Roswitha! Are you up here?”

She looked through the telescope to see down the long end of the attic corridor. “Follow the string, Pappa.” Roswitha collapsed the telescope and placed it in her trunk, then raced off to meet him. 

“Sweet Sif,” he said, brushing off her shoulders and watching the dust catch in the light. Pappa pulled out his wand, and tapped her shoulder with it. “_Scourgify._ Now then, what have you been doing up here, darling heart?” 

“Looking for my school supplies,” said Roswitha, reaching up to press a kiss to his stubbly cheek. “I’ve found everything except the books so far, and it’s been very nice — did you know we had a whole wardrobe full of ball gowns?”

“I did not,” said Pappa as he looked around. “Odin, what is all of this?”

“The family’s things,” said Roswitha, watching her father as he looked around, “From years and years of being. Anything that isn’t needed in the rest of the house comes here. Is something wrong, Pappa?”

He was frowning as he looked around now. “I’m just wondering what my parents would have done if they’d known about all of this. And how many cursed artifacts we might have stored over the years.” 

Roswitha nodded. “I thought of that too. That’s why I brought the string, and I was really careful when looking for things — I didn’t even go looking for the vault that’s up here, just for my school things.”

“There’s a vault up here?” Pappa asked, starting. 

“That’s what Kreacher said, when I asked him about it,” Roswitha replied, nodding. “He said that we didn’t keep all our wealth in Gringotts, because that would be silly since we don’t trust the goblins. So there was a vault in the attic. Or maybe the attic is a vault, I can’t remember — is Father awake too?” 

Pappa took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from the room around him and looked at her. “Yes, he’s awake, and inhaling as much water and coffee as he can get his hands on. Apparently he had never had mead before.” He kissed her forehead and then reached for her hand. “Come along, my darling heart. We have guests to entertain.” 

“The Malfoys _again_?” Roswitha asked as they made their way back toward the entrance, Pappa taking the trunk from her so she might wind the ball of yarn as they went. She loved her cousins, she did, but they lived very differently.

“Them, and the Tonkses,” said Pappa, as they came to the entrance to the attic. 

Roswitha giggled at the thought of them all in the same room. “Poor Father — I suppose we’d better go down and help him.” 

“I suppose so,” said Pappa, a grin set on his own mouth. Pappa pulled out his wand and cast a set of spells on the trunk, making it smaller and lighter so he might carry it down the wrought iron stairs. Roswitha untied the yarn, finished remaking the ball, and then closed the attic door behind her. Pappa, already at the bottom of the stairs, held out his arms to her. Roswitha reached back, placing her hands on his shoulder, and let her pappa swing her down from the top step to the very bottom. 

Leaving her trunk in her bedroom, they made their way to the solar. It was gone half eleven now, and an odd mix of elevenses and breakfast sat out on the table. Narcissa and Andromeda sat chatting away at one side of the table, Ted and Lucius were studiously ignoring one another, while Draco tucked in to a plate of bacon and Father and Nym were sharing a coffee pot between them. 

Roswitha went to Father first, kissing his cheek and asking, “Do you need any sort of potion?”

Father smiled a little, saying, “I’ve already taken them — I was only hoping for some peace and quiet while they took affect.”

“Here here,” Nym mumbled. 

“Really now, Severus,” said Narcissa, drawing up a tremendous pout. “We are _family_ now. Or we would be if you two would ever marry.” 

Pappa smiled, tritely, as he crossed the room saying, “I’m still waiting on a promise that you will not overplan our wedding.”

“Which you will never get,” said Narcissa, primly sipping her tea. 

“Then we will never marry.” Pappa leaned down and kissed Father on the mouth. “Provided that satisfies you, my love.” 

“Gross,” Draco murmured, nibbling on a slice of bacon.

Father kissed him back. “I would live in sin, forever, so long as it was with you.” 

“Grosser,” said Nym, as she stole a piece of bacon from Draco’s plate. 

Roswitha took a seat between her two cousins and said, “Did you know we have ball gowns in our attic?” All eyes flew to her and for a moment, silence reigned in the solar. 

“Thor preserve me, child,” said Lucius, his nose curling up. “What on earth were you doing in the attic?”

Everyone’s eyes still trained on her, Roswitha explained in as quiet tones as she could what she had been doing in the attic, and all she had seen up there. When Roswitha explained that she had found clothing for school, Narcissa nearly demanded to see it to make sure the clothes were in good taste. Andromeda followed, likely to curb her younger sister’s appetites for fashion. Nym followed along as she likely did not want to be alone in the room with all the men, coffee cup in one hand, bacon in the other. 

Narcissa and Andromeda both examined the clothing Roswitha had selected from the attic, mumbling over cuts and styles, while Roswitha and Nym sat in the window seat watching. 

“The hat we will have to replace,” said Narcissa, turning it over, “as this is no longer in style. But the skirts are passable, especially while you are growing. Goodness knows, nothing goes to the knees anymore.” 

“But they are all in remarkably good condition,” said Andromeda. She turned out one corner of the cloak, showing where her name had been embroidered. “This used to be mine. I had wondered what happened when I outgrew it. Frigg help us all, Bell threw such a fit when Mamma tried to give it to her.” 

“So the Hogwarts supply list hasn’t changed in, what? Forty years?” Nym asked, wrinkling her nose. 

Andromeda swatted her with the cloak. “Try twenty-five, young lady. You’re barely eighteen, you know. I’m not that old yet. And it’s a uniform — styles may come and go but a winter cloak will always warm you, and a black one will make sure that no one stands out from anyone else.” 

“I suppose then we will just have to fit you for some day robes when we go to Diagon Alley today,” said Narcissa, laying out the clothes again. 

Roswitha wrinkled her nose. “I have day robes,” she said. 

“And they are too small for you,” said Narcissa, easily. “You’ve grown several inches since I bought those robes for you, and you’ll be expected to dress nicely for etiquette club, which you will attend, Roswitha Artemis, no arguments.” 

“Yes, Madam,” said Roswitha, sighing. 

“It’s not all that bad,” said Nym. “Lot’s of waving, and bowing, and tea, but not bad. Occasionally they even put on dances. Besides, now you have a reason to drag your dads out shopping. But I’d like to see your attic later — a thousand years or more worth of artifacts sound proper good time.” 

“Grimmauld Place has only stood for three hundred years, dear niece,” said Narcissa raising a well manicured eyebrow. “It seems your dates are not up to snuff.”

“Well, yes, Auntie, I know,” said Nym, color rising to her cheeks. “But the House itself existed before that, didn’t it? Surely, the Blacks then didn’t just leave things behind when they moved house.”

“‘Course not,” said Roswitha, “they moved the whole interior, naturally.” 

Narcissa laughed. “Dear child, where do you think of these things?”

Roswitha opened her mouth to retort, but she realized that she _didn’t_ know where she had learned that information. Her fathers hadn’t told her, nor had Andromeda or Narcissa. Had it been a dream? Or was it something she simply knew as the Master of the House? However she had learned it, Roswitha knew what she had said to be the absolute truth. The House had moved from Norway to France (just outside of Paris) to Essex to London. But it had always been The House of Black, La Maison de Menaçant, which could never change no matter the exterior. 

Narcissa had not expected an answer from her and had gone on to talk to Andromeda about the trip they were to take, and which stops to make along the alley. 

“Shall we see if luncheon is prepared?” Andromeda asked when they finished. 

Roswitha nodded, and they all went back down, Roswitha falling to the back as she thought about what she had just realized. How was it that she could know something about the house without ever having learned it? Was it like parseltongue, where she had always known the language of snakes as if she were one? A goblin had once told her that all goblin children are born knowing everything their parents had known, and they knew everything _their parents_ had known and on and on. Was that the same as when she put on the ring that made her the Master of the House that she had begun to learn about the home without needing to actually learn it?

The smell of luncheon as they drew closer to the solar drew her from her thoughts. Bits had prepared a lovely spread for them, still appearing on the table and on the sideboard. The adults discussed plan to leave for Diagon Alley once they had luncheon, and they all agreed to it. Roswitha mostly sat next to Draco, still turning over a few thoughts in her mind as she chewed her food. 

“What are you thinking about, my darling heart?” Pappa asked, meeting her eye. 

“Memories,” said Roswitha, looking up at him. “And if we can get them when we haven’t made them.” 

“That,” said Father, cutting a piece of beef, “is very advanced mind magic. Perhaps once you have a better understanding of magical theory I’ll show you.” 

Roswitha thought they might be talking about different things, but as she did not know how to explain herself, she did not. Instead, she ate her lunch, pulled on her satchel when required to get ready and went to Diagon Alley with her family. 

\---

By far the best part of going to Diagon Alley with Father was watching him menace the apothecaries. It didn’t matter which one they went to, whenever Father asked someone a question about their supplies, they cowered before him (a habit Pappa was forever getting after him about). It shouldn’t have been funny, people being afraid of him, but it _was_. Father was not at all frightening, no matter what subject he taught people in school — at least he could never be frightening to her. Whenever he yelled it was usually about something important, such as a potion ready to explode, and whenever he crept up behind her and asked what she was doing, Roswitha always managed to explain herself to his satisfaction. 

Unfortunately, going to Diagon Alley with cousin Narcissa meant getting pulled away from Father asking about the quality of the beetle wings to be measured for new robes. 

“Day robes, for this one,” said Narcissa as she ushered Roswitha up onto a pedestal. “Only three pairs I think — they grow so quickly at this age — with an extra hem to let them down.” 

Roswitha did her best to stay still for the measuring tape, as things would be over with much more quickly that way. “How do you manage to stand so still?” Roswitha asked, as she glared at Draco. 

Draco managed to look positively serene as he opened his eyes and answered her, “I’m just naturally even tempered.”

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me,” Roswitha retorted. 

Draco stuck his tongue out at her. 

Roswitha rolled her eyes and took a deep breath, choosing to ignore her cousin and focus at a spot on the wall. The pattern in the wallpaper was surely more interesting than standing and doing nothing. Her eyes traced the swirls and curls from the middle of the wall to the very top, until one of Madam Malkin’s assistants tapped her gently, saying, “You’re all done, dear. The Malfoys went up the way to Ollivanders.”

Roswitha smiled politely at that information, saying, “Thank you!” before going across the street to Flourish and Blotts. 

The texts had not changed since her father had been in school, with the exception of the defense textbook. Roswitha poked through the display of Hogwarts textbooks until she found the one she needed. The errand completed far too quickly, Roswitha lingered in and around the books debating on others she might get. Her eye caught on several volumes, which really ought not have been shelved so close to the school books, including a book on the viciousness of werewolves, one about how to hex your enemies (ironically by the same man who wrote their defense text), and one about, as far as Roswitha could tell, reading minds. At last she came across a copy of _Hogwarts, a History_, where another girl her age stood also examining the book. 

Roswitha opened her mouth to ask if the girl was also new to Hogwarts this year, when the girl looked up and announced, “Coming, Mum.” Roswitha watched as the other girl walked to the register, her mother nowhere in sight. 

“Hmph,” she muttered. “Well, I seemed to have inherited a few things from Father after all this time.” And suddenly, people being afraid of someone they really oughtn’t be wasn’t remotely funny at all. Roswitha took a copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ and went up to the register when the other girl had departed. 

As she crossed the threshold, Roswitha spotted her pappa, who spotted her in the same moment. “There you are!” he cried. “Narcissa said she left you in Madam Malkin’s half an hour ago.”

“I just wanted to be alone for a little bit,” said Roswitha, offering out her hand to him. She looked up at him asking, “Have you told Cousin Narcissa that I already have my wand?”

Pappa frowned a little bit, and then shook his head. “Severus knows, but no one else. We may not want to let on, especially given that Nymphadora will be starting auror training soon and Meda is a barrister in the ministry.”

Roswitha nodded. “Then, shall we duck into the stationary shop for now, and figure out what to say later?” 

“Capital idea, my darling heart,” said Pappa with a grin. “We may sort you Slytherin yet.”

Roswitha sighed, as dramatically as she could muster, while they dodged other personage as the crossed the street. “Pappa, is it really that important that I sort into Slytherin?”

“I seem to recall we’ve had this conversation,” said Pappa, glancing down at her, before looking back to the busy street. “Hold on a moment,” he added as they entered a thick crowd and would not have been able to hear one another.

They had — that day at the zoo, and other times since when Pappa or Father or any of the cousins would comment on her being Slytherin or Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff (Nym’s house) or scrunch up their noses when they didn’t want to call her a Gryffindor. Everytime the family spoke of houses, though, it sounded as if they wanted her to be a Slytherin more than anything else in the world. It worried Roswitha, because while she thought she had a good shot at Slytherin, she didn’t know that she would make it in. Maybe her love of books would make her a Ravenclaw, maybe her loyalty would make her a Hufflepuff. Maybe, and heaven help her if it did, her willingness to wander would make her a Gryffindor.

“We have talked about it before. And it seems like even though you said it would be alright, everyone still wants me to be a Slytherin. And, well, Uncle Sirius was a Gryffindor,” said Roswitha once they made it across the street. She hated to bring up Uncle Sirius, but it seemed like everyone was always thinking of him in any case. 

Pappa sighed at the mention of his brother. “Yes, Uncle Sirius was a Gryffindor. But I think he and your father would go to show that house traits are not anything. Perhaps Sirius was brave, but he was also only out for himself in the end. And Severus is cunning and ambitious, certainly, but also caring and patient — at least with you if not all of his students.” He sighed again as they stopped outside the shop window and turned to face her. “If you do get into Gryffindor, yes, everyone will think of Sirius, and it may make things a little more difficult for you, my darling heart. But everyone knows how you are, in time, and how kind you are, how good.” He kissed her forehead, before resting his chin on top of her head. “It’ll be alright, I promise.” 

Roswitha wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight. “Thank you, Pappa,” she mumbled into his chest.”

“You’re welcome, my darling heart.” He pulled away and pointed them toward the shop. “Now, shall we get you some parchment?”

Roswitha had opinions about parchment. Over the years in her private lessons, she had discovered that notebooks were much more useful for taking notes than a roll of paper which could become easily confused with others. Scribbulus had notebooks of a size similar Roswitha’s muggle wirebound notebooks, only these were bound in leather like a diary. Thankfully, that meant they also came in different colors or designs, so she could differentiate between the different classes.

“How many classes are there at Hogwarts?” Roswitha asked as she began to stack the notebooks in her hand. 

Pappa took a moment to tick off his fingers and mumble while he counted. “Seven that you’ll need to take notes for your first two years. After that you get to pick some others.” 

Luckily, there were seven different colors to cover the seven different classes, and unluckily, Pappa still bought her parchment. “You need it for your essays, don’t frown, Roswitha.” But he allowed her to get a bottle of green ink, and a new fountain pen as an early birthday present.

They left the shop full of stationary, and made their way to look for Father. They found him scowling outside of Slugger and Jiggs, holding potioneer’s ingredient box. 

“What’s the matter, my love?” Pappa asked, a grin on his face. “Did their lacewing fly’s measure a millimeter too short?” 

Father rolled his eyes. “Shoddy ingredients make shoddy potions, and you know it. But no, I ran into an old… acquaintance. One I would rather have never seen again, but I will say no more on it.” 

Roswitha blinked at his statement — she had never known Father to mention something he didn’t want to discuss. Or perhaps, he did want to discuss it, but not in front of her. An ex-boyfriend, maybe? Instead, she asked, “Did you get yourself a new box?” 

“No,” said Father, turning his attention toward her. He held out the box, bound over in green dragon skin. “This is for you, child. Happy Birthday.” 

Roswitha grinned as she took the box from him. “Thank you, Father, it’s wonderful. It will clash with my Gryffindor tie, but I do like the color.” 

Pappa snorted to try and hide his laugh, but Father just rolled his eyes. “There is no reason you cannot wear green if you are in Gryffindor,” he protested. 

Roswitha’s smile brightened, and she reached out to hug him. Father was not one for physical displays of affection, especially not in public, but he allowed it with his own smile in place. “Really, though, Father, thank you. It’s a wonderful gift.” 

“You’re welcome, child. Though for your real present you shall have to solve several riddles when we get home,” he said, softly. Then, he looked up, his dark eyes focusing across the street. “I spy a Malfoy.”

Pappa and Roswitha looked up as well, spotting Lucius across the street, Draco attached to him and babbling away. Lucius beckoned them forward, presumably because Malfoys did not tangle in crowds. Pappa took Roswitha’s free hand, and Father placed a hand on her shoulder as they made their way across the street. 

Draco brandished his wand at her. “Hawthorne, ten inches, unicorn hair. Did you get yours?”

Roswitha pulled her wand from up her sleeve. “Eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather. Have you got everything?”

“_Gotten_,” Lucius corrected absently, as he scanned the crowd.

Roswitha resisted the urge to roll her eyes — her parents barely tolerated such an action, and Lucius certainly did not. “Yes, sir: have you gotten everything?” 

“Nearly,” said Draco. “Mother just went to go and fetch one final thing.” 

“Here she is now,” said Lucius softly, as Narcissa dodged across the street as artful as a dance the Tonks family not far behind her. 

“Shall we go to supper, then?” Narcissa asked as she approached, a small box in hand. 

Most purchases were handed off to house elves called into quiet corners and laneways before the family proceeded to Horizont Alley where Lucius had reserved a private dining room in a French restaurant. Of course, Roswitha suspected something, for certain packages remained with them, though most had been sent off, and she knew perfectly well it was August first, thank you. Still, she felt delighted when the server brought in a cake lit up with sparklers and her family sang to her. 

“Make a wish, my darling heart,” said Pappa when the cake was set in front of her and the song finished. 

“You make one too,” Roswitha insisted. 

Pappa rolled his eyes a little. “Oh, very well.” 

They took a moment to make their wishes, and then blew out the candles together. Everyone applauded, and while the server whisked away the cake to cut it, presents pushed their way forward on the table to Roswitha. Draco had gotten her a tea set along with several nice teas so that she might have a cuppa in her dorm room, while Lucius gave her a plethora of fine chocolates (the gifs smacked of Narcissa’s influence, but it was a nice gift all the same, and Roswitha thanked him for it). Narcissa, naturally, gave her a brand new diary. Ted and Andromeda gave her a punching bag — one which could shrink and become weightless thanks to some runes intricately embroidered into the fabric — and new boxing gloves so she could continue to practice when she went to school. Nym gave her a series of records to go with her magical turntable. 

The last gift was from Pappa. Narcissa passed him the box she had retrieved before coming to meet with them, and then Pappa passed it to her. Roswitha undid the little bow, and opened up the box to find a locket, nearly as wide as a fob watch. It was made of the same dark metal covered in silver veins that the House Ring was, and on it’s lid the house seal was engraved. 

“Click the top,” Pappa instructed.

When Roswitha did, it opened to reveal there was, indeed a watch, with beautiful letters and a glass face. She pulled the watch from its box and discovered it came on a chain long enough to go over her head. On the back of the watch, she now saw, contained the image of the moon, only partially illuminated in accordance to the phase. “It’s a beautiful, Pappa,” she said, pulling it on. “Thank you so much!” 

She reached over to hug him and give him a kiss, as he said, “You’re most welcome, my darling heart. Thank your father, too, since he helped me pick it out.” 

“Thank you, Father,” said Roswitha, reaching over to give Father a kiss as well. 

The server came back with the cake setting down a slice before them. Before they ate, Lucius raised a glass to Draco and Roswitha’s entrance into Hogwarts and Nym’s entrance into Auror Training. The adults had their glasses raised for a goodly number of minutes before Father coughed, and Roswitha thought she saw Narcissa kick Lucius under the table. When at last Lucius finished extolling the virtues of their family, they toasted. The adults clicked their glasses together, but Roswitha knocked plates of cake with Draco. 

Afternoon complete, Roswitha, Pappa, and Father returned to Grimmauld Place. It was getting late when they got home, so Roswitha had a bath, sitting in the tub for a while as she read a book. When the water became cold at last (difficult to do in an enchanted tub, so likely the House’s way of telling her it was time to get out) and Roswitha was halfway through her book, she finally got out. Drying off, she dressed for bed and wrapped a dressing gown around herself before going to find her parents to wish them good night. 

They were in the sitting room, talking quietly with one another, light smiles fixed on their faces, and kissing every other sentence. Roswitha rapped on the threshold, causing them both to look up. 

“Is there something you need, child?” Father asked. 

“Just to say good night.” She confidently crossed to the couch where they had ensconced themselves, before stopping just short. Looking directly at them, Rowitha said, “Well, good night,” before turning away.

She didn’t make it a single step before her parents scoffed and pulled her onto the couch with them. Roswitha giggled and cuddled deeper into them. 

“Are you excited to go to Hogwarts?” Pappa asked, as he played with the end of her hair. 

“Yes,” said Roswitha, nodding. “But a little nervous too.”

“About sorting again?” Father asked, moving so that his arm was around her. 

“Mmm.” Roswitha hummed before she answered, “but also about making friends and doing well in classes.” 

Father rolled his eyes at her. “You know plenty to do well in classes. I dare say we’ve brewed enough potions together that you will do perfectly fine — and don’t think I’m not wise to the spell casting you do in your free time.” 

Roswitha pouted and nudged him with her knee. “How did you know?” 

“I’m not blind,” said Father, nudging her back. 

“Besides all that, you’ll make plenty of friends,” said Pappa, brushing her hair back out of her face and over her shoulder. “You’ll be living with new people, so surely, you’ll become friends with some of them.”

“If it’s truly awful, may I come home?” Roswitha asked, looking between the two of them. 

Pappa only sighed. “I should have sent you to primary school. Andromeda was sure she could forge the documents.”

Roswitha eyed him, as innocently as she could. “Is that a no?”

“Off with you,” said Pappa, pushinging her up and off of the couch. “Go and get settled into bed. If you’re not too old for it, I’ll come and read you a story.”

“Yes, please.” She turned and kissed Father, wishing him, “Good night.”

“Good night, child.” 

Roswitha turned and left the sitting room, making her way up the stairs, and pulled a copy of _Beedle the Bard_ from her bookshelf before settling into her bed. Pappa came up a few minutes later, and settled at the end of the bed reading from the story of “The Three Brothers,” as Roswitha drifted off. She was only a little awake when Pappa tucked up the quilt and sheets around her whispering, “Good night, my darling heart.” 

\---

Before she went to Hogwarts, Roswitha had it in her head to visit all the places in London she hadn’t done in the past years since moving there. When Father pointed out that she likely wouldn’t be able to see _everything_, she narrowed it down to a list she thought achievable. Strangely, Pappa and Father insisted on accompanying her on these outing when they had never before done so if it wasn’t something they also wanted to see. Pappa even started going to boxing with her almost every session, and Father would go along to yoga (even if he did seethe under his breath the entire time he stretched into a new position). 

“Are you sure?” Roswitha asked when Father said he wanted to go with her to the National Portrait Gallery. “It will probably be crowded.” 

Father hated crowds, but he still gave a steady nod. He was dressed quite casually, too, in a pair of black denims and a soft button up that he must have had for a time as the hems were fraying just ever so slightly. “Are you embarrassed to be around me?” he asked, a small smirk forming at his mouth. “Already?”

“No! Of course not!” said Roswitha. An aghast feeling ran up her throat at the thought of being ashamed of her parents. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable, that’s all. And I didn’t know you liked art.” 

“I like art just fine,” said Father, rolling his eyes. “Put your shoes on and let’s get going. You realize, child, that your Pappa and I would like to spend some time with you before you go off to school and we don’t see you for months?”

“_You’ll_ see me every day,” said Roswitha, as she laced up her worn in pair of walking boots. Father appreciated a tidy appearance, but never sacrificed comfort solely for the sake of appearance. 

“Yes,” said Father, raising an eyebrow, then smirking when she raised one in return. “But you’ll eat with your house in the Great Hall, and in class you have to call me Professor — there won’t be little trips like this, you know. It will be… different.” 

Roswitha finished with the laces of her boots and stood up. She wasn’t sure that she understood completely — other people had parents who were teachers, surely — but she decided to take her father’s word for it. “Well, then, as long as you won’t be uncomfortable,” said Roswitha. “We’ll probably need to take transport after all, since you’ve never been there before.” 

Father frowned, his nose scrunching up a little as he resigned himself to be on a crowded train (Roswitha had once asked him why he disliked public transit so much when surely _he _must have taken in at some point, even though Pappa never had. Father, as it turned out, had a very keen sense of smell and taste, more so than an average person. In an enclosed space, then everything became exaggerated and too much). “How far is it?”

“A few minutes,” she said. 

“A taxi it is,” said Father. 

Roswitha snorted a little, but did not object any as they walked to the high street and hailed a cab to take them to the National Portrait Gallery. They did not make much better time than they would have if they had taken the Tube, but Father was still in a bit of a foul mood when they arrived. “I’ll go and buy the tickets,” Roswitha decided, leaving Father by a wall he could lean on for a moment. It was a testament to his car sickness that Father did not protest in the slightest. 

Roswitha purchased the tickets, smiling at the ticket master all the while, who even managed to smile back a little as she handed over the tickets. When Roswitha returned to him, Father seemed a little better and was able to stand upright without needing any assistance as they walked into the gallery. 

The National Portrait Gallery seemed to be one of those buildings with endless corridors that all had something to look at. Roswitha found it enchanting — all the endless faces that stared back at her, the styles which would differ, even only slightly, from century to century. Father seemed to enjoy himself, even as he grumbled a little, “We are lucky these are not wizarding portraits, or there would be no end to the noise.” 

Roswitha had to giggle at that.

When they came into the next room, though, Roswitha spotted someone familiar. “Would you wait here for me, for a moment?” 

Father’s eyes deepened a little, and he studied her for a moment. “Very well,” he said after a moment. 

Roswitha walked toward the girl she had spotted, the very same one who had been in Flourish and Blott that day at Diagon Alley. Roswitha said nothing as she approached, merely sidled up to the other girl and stood next to her, both of them admiring the portrait in front of them (or at the very least, Roswitha pretended to admire the portrait) until the girl looked over at Roswitha and startled. 

“Aren’t you a witch?” the girl asked. 

“Well, yes,” said Roswitha, smiling. “But aren’t you? I saw you buy a copy of _Hogwarts, a History._” 

The girl flushed. “Oh — did you? I’m sorry, I suppose that doesn’t make me look very good. It’s just…”

Roswita blinked to show she was paying attention. “Yes?” 

“Well, you looked dressed all nice, and like a witch, I thought you might be sort of posh,” said the girl, with a little shrug. “The posh girls at my school aren’t very nice.” 

“Oh.” Roswitha felt herself falter a little bit, and looked down at her clothes. She supposed she did dress a little nice, and her hair was long and shiny, and she wore the House ring everywhere she went (now, she also wore her birthday present watch everywhere too). In a way, it felt the way she had when she was still living at the orphanage. Everyone at her school there knew her as “the poor orphan girl” before they knew her as Roswitha. “That’s — well there are rotten people at every school, aren’t there?”

“I suppose that wasn’t very fair of me,” said the other girl, her deep brown eyes drawing Roswitha up. “Shall we start again? I’m Hermione Granger.” Hermione held out her hand.

“Roswitha Black.” Roswitha took her by the hand and shook. “Pleased to meet you.” And Roswitha found that she really was, in spite of an earlier understanding. “Is it going to be your first year at Hogwarts?”

They began to talk — it _was_ to be Hermione’s first year, just like it was to be Roswitha’s. Hermione was a muggleborn, whose parents were dentists. She also lived in London, just in Oxbridge. Roswitha confided that she was likely a halfblood, not that it really mattered, and she lived in Islington with her parents. They talked about what sort of books they read, as they both read widely, when a striking woman came up behind them, the sunlight from the skylight above setting her dark brown skin aglow.

“Who’s this, then?” the woman asked. 

“Hi Mum,” said Hermione, looking up at her mother with a smile. “This is Roswitha. She’s also going to Hogwarts in the fall.” 

Dr. Granger looked at her with a warm smile. “Is that so? Pleased to meet you, Roswitha.” 

“Pleased to meet you, too, Dr. Granger,” replied Roswitha. She looked up to the spot where she had left Father a few moments ago only to find him gone. “My father’s around here somewhere.”

“Right here, child,” said a voice in her ear. 

Roswitha knew him too well to jump, and instead rolled her eyes. “This is my Father, Severus Snape — he’s going to be our potions professor, Hermione. Father, this is Hermione Granger and Dr. Granger.” 

Dr. Granger held out a hand with a bright smile. “Helen Granger, please do call me ‘Helen.’”

“Severus,” said Father, sounding a little bit dazed. “Likewise.”

“Well, I was just about to collect Hermione for lunch,” said Dr. Granger, smile still bright. “Would the two of you like to join us? I’d love to know more about Hogwarts, and I’m sure the girls would love a chance to keep talking.” 

“Please, Father?” Roswitha asked, turning to him with wide eyes. 

Father gave one of his little smirks. “Yes, child, we can go to lunch.” 

There was a small cafe a block away from the museum that Dr. Granger knew about where they could have a little more quiet away from the hubbub of the gallery and surrounding traffic. While Hermione expounded about the differences between science fiction and fantasy (born out of a conversation where they discussed which books they had read with witches in them), Dr. Granger did indeed ask Father about Hogwarts and all of its subjects. They also talked about their spouses and other aspects of their work. When the crusts of their cheese toasties and the dregs of their soup were all that remained of lunch, Dr. Granger asked if Father was a fan of Shakespeare. 

“I’ve seen several of the plays,” said Father. 

“We have tickets to _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ at our local theatre this Friday,” said Dr. Granger, smiling. “If you’d like, we can easily get three more.”

Father blinked a few times. “I can talk to Regulus — he doesn’t have any long contracts he is working on at present, but he might have something already planned.”

Dr. Granger pulled out her business card and wrote another number on the back of it. “That’s our home line, feel free to give us a ring when you have a chance to discuss it.” 

When Pappa arrived home that night, and they explained everything over dinner, he too blinked owlishly. “Severus,” he asked with a slow dawning smile, “did you make a friend?” 

Father scowled. “Do you want to see a play or don’t you?” 

“And you always tell me you can’t make friends,” said Pappa, grinning widely now. “Yes, of course, let’s go.” 

And in the spirit of making new friends they went to the playhouse, dressed well and met with Hermione, Dr. Granger and her husband, Dr. Compton. The night of fairies and whimsy and Hermione and Rowitha giggling together as their parents talked about the play in low tones was a success by any standard and would have been a good close to the summer, had it been the close. 


	5. The Hogwarts Express and All That Happened On It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roswitha rides the Hogwarts express and hears the name Heather Potter for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double Update! If you are subscribed, make sure you've read chapter 4 first :D

Summer’s last week did not end on some extraordinary horror, but rather on the packing of a trunk — really on its packing and repacking.

Roswitha pulled her trunk up onto her bed August 24th and began to arrange her cauldron, stores box, phials, scales, telescope, yoga mat, punching bag, gloves, tape, uniform, day clothes, athletic clothes, shoes, and books (both academic and leisure) within. She found a configuration which worked and still left a little room for anything which she had forgotten. When Roswitha realized the next day that she had forgotten to put in her toiletries, she opened the trunk and found it completely repacked in a much different configuration than she had chosen. 

“Did either of you repack my trunk?” Roswitha asked her parents at breakfast. 

“Darling heart, why on earth…?” Pappa started to ask before Father resolutely hid himself in the pages of the _Daily Prophet_. “Severus, sweet Sif, we can owl her anything she’s missing!” 

Of course, Pappa did not escape her ire, for she found it repacked again the next day, and he only guilty sipped his cup of tea. It was repacked again on the 27th, and neither of her parents did then, but she found Bits admitted to it, for he was hiding treats among her trunk. Roswitha found Plop rooting through it on the 28th and merely pointed at the door, not trusting herself to speak. Looking at her trunk made her angry then, so Roswitha set everything to the side and left it until the next day. 

As she finally pulled everything out onto her bed to make it fit her way, Kreacher appeared in her doorway. 

“Kreacher is having a gift for little Mistress,” said Kreacher. “Is Kreacher being allowed to enter?”

Any rage she had felt ebbed with a small huff, as Roswitha said, “Yes, Kreacher, you may enter.”

Kreacher came in and held out his long hands. In them was a small fainting couch, made of mahogany wood and red velvet. “It is not really Kreacher’s to give,” said Kreacher, nodding. “But Kreacher is knowing where it was being in the attic, and Kreacher is making it smaller to fit in Mistress’s trunk since she is coming on her hysterical times and may be needing to faint now.” 

Roswitha vaguely thought she ought to be offended at being called hysterical, but that Kreacher had thought of her was a lovely enough sentiment. She hugged the old elf, saying, “Well, you’re the only one who hasn’t had a chance — would you like to pack my trunk, Kreacher?”

Kreacher clicked his fingers and everything began to arrange itself in perfect space as he remarked, “Kreacher is doing this for Master Regulus and Master Sirius when they was being small. Kreacher was glad to be doing it, Kreacher was glad to be helping where he could. It is making Kreacher feel important when the little masters was not needing him so much.” 

Roswitha huffed a little again, without her heart in it, at Kreacher’s point. “Yes, well, they still might have asked.” 

“Doing is being easier than asking, sometimes, little Mistress,” said Kreacher as he placed the small chaise in the trunk on top of the rest of the perfectly arranged items. 

\---

On the morning of September 1st, after a hearty breakfast, Roswitha made sure to hug each of the elves goodbye, as they had given her a great deal of help over the years. Bits gave her a basket full of food for the journey, Pappa took her trunk, and Roswitha carried Hedwig’s cage as they left 12 Grimmauld Place. 

“I thought we might walk,” said Pappa, reaching out to take her hand, though he hated to walk anywhere. Even so, he had transfigured a set of wheels onto her trunk, and if Roswitha were not mistaken, his eyes were quite wet.

“Alright,” she agreed, squeezing his hand. 

They walked mostly in silence, through the winding route to Charing Cross station. When they arrived at the station, Roswitha couldn’t see any of the trains being the one to take her to Hogwarts. Pappa did not seem overly concerned, though, as he led them to the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. “Take a deep breath,” he told her, like he did whenever they apparated. But instead of disapparating, he merely took a step forward, and so Roswitha did the same, straight into the barrier. 

When they arrived on a new Platform, completely unscathed, Roswitha exhaled. 

“Are you alright, my darling heart?” Pappa asked. 

Roswitha looked up at the bright scarlet steam engine before her and smiled. “Yes,” she said, looking up at him. “Yes, I’m perfectly alright.” 

“C’mon,” said Pappa, grinning. “Let’s find you a compartment.” 

It was just gone ten-thirty when they arrived and the train left the station at eleven, so there were a great number of people already on the train and on the platform as well. Pappa boosted her up into a compartment and clamored in after, with her trunk. He took off his hat, laying it on the seat, and knelt in front of her. “I’m afraid I won’t stay, my darling heart,” he said, smiling sadly. “I’ll just become a blubbering mess if I do.”

“I doubt it,” said Roswitha, even as she felt her own throat become itchy and tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “You’re not the sort to blubber.”

“I’m not?” 

“Well, I’ve never seen you do.”

Pappa snorted and then sniffled, managing to maintain a weak smile. “I’ll be up to visit sometime in the first term, I promise,” said Pappa, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “So you won’t have very long to miss me, you see. But I love you, my darling heart. Please know that I love you.”

“I love you, too, Pappa.” Roswitha reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck. 

Pappa clasped her tightly as well, kissing her cheek as he did. “Make sure to write me though. I may not be able to visit very often, and I want to hear about everything happening to you. All your friends and your adventures — everything.” 

“Like the first time I fight a dragon?” Roswitha asked, pulling away and swiping at her tears. “Or my first detention?”

“No detention,” said Pappa around a laugh. “Or dragons, understand?”

“Yes, Pappa,” said Roswitha as she threw her arms around his neck again. 

They stayed that way for a moment before Pappa pulled away this time. “I really do have to go now,” said Pappa, tapping her nose. “Or the blubbering will begin, I promise you. Goodbye, my darling heart. I love you so very much.”

“I love you, too, Pappa,” said Roswitha. 

They did not embrace again — Roswitha thought if they did he might not let her go. Instead, Pappa stepped down from the compartment onto the platform. Roswitha watched him go, and he turned when he was near the barrier again and gave her a wave. Roswitha waved back, before settling herself down in the seat so she didn’t have to watch him disappear. _How strange_, she thought. She didn’t have parents for almost nine years of her life, and after having them for three she suddenly seemed unable to live without them. “Oh buck up,” she told herself, and stood to deal with her trunk. 

The wheels had helped the trunk make it to the train, but now it seemed impossible to lift. Feeling a little miserable and a little petulant, she kicked the trunk. With the loud thunk still echoing in her compartment, two twin faces framed by red hair appeared in the outer door of the compartment.

“Do you need help?” one of them asked. 

“Oh, yes please,” said Roswitha, stepping back to allow them in. 

The twin boys lifted the trunk easily, but when they noticed her careful gaze they began to feign straining and calling out, “heave ho, heave ho,” making Roswitha giggle as they at their antics. With her laughter, her bad mood lifted almost entirely. 

“See, Fred,” said one twin to the other. 

“You were right, George,” said the other to the one. 

“What were you right about?” Roswitha asked as they deposited her trunk into the overhead luggage rack. 

“You have a very pretty smile,” the twins said together. 

Roswitha flushed and felt a little frozen. She wracked her mind for what to do, and the only thing she came up with was a page from the blasted blue book — Roswitha curtsied to them both. “Thank you,” she said. 

The twins did not laugh, only gave their own exaggerated bows in return. “Milady,” they said as one. 

“You are most welcome,” said George.

“By your leave, my lady, we want to see a man about a tarantula,” said Fred. 

Roswitha laughed again. “Yes, of course. Thank you again.”

Fred and George bowed their way out of the compartment, before scampering off. 

Roswitha, still feeling a little flush, turned to the compartment door for a little air and to see if she could spot anyone she knew. She didn’t see Hermione, but she did spot a head of light blond hair almost towering above everyone else. Roswitha ducked down as to avoid having to go to and converse with the Malfoy family on her own. When she saw Narcissa and Lucius move back toward the barrier, Roswitha at last stood from her position. She checked the time and found they still had fifteen minutes until the train left. With a huff, Roswitha climbed up on the seat to get a book from her trunk.

As she was rifling through the trunk, deciding which book she wanted to read as she rifled, red and George entered the compartment again with another redheaded boy. 

“Doth my lady need assistance?” George asked, watching her. 

“Good sir knight!” said Roswitha, pressing a scandalized hand to her chest. Then she dropped the act and said, “A hand down would be nice.”

George stepped forward and took her hand while she jumped down. “This is our younger brother, Squire Ron,” said George, still holding her hand. “And he would like a place to sit.”

“My lands are always open to the pure of heart,” said Roswitha, with a curtsy. “Welcome, Squire Ron.”

Ron, for his parts rolled his eyes. “You shouldn’t encourage them — they’ll just drive you batty.” 

Roswitha giggled and took her hand back from George to hold it out to Ron. “Roswitha Black, pleased to meet you.” 

“Ron Weasley, same.” Ron had large, warm hands and a firm grasp. 

“Black?” asked Fred.

“As in, the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black?” asked George.

“As in, Sirius Black?” asked Fred. 

“As in Regulus Black,” said Roswitha as George opened his mouth to say something else. “My father.”

“That makes us cousins, fair lady,” said George. 

Ron scrunched up his nose, somehow making the smattering of freckles there far more pronounced. “We are?”

“Indubitably, Ronnekins,” said Fred, ruffling his brother’s hair. “Through our mum — a Black married a Prewitt — or maybe through our father whose grandfather married a Black — don’t quite remember who though. In anycase, we’re off to go find Lee. But if you need anything, either of you, come and ask.”

“But don’t ask Percy,” said George, also ruffling Ron’s hair. “You’ll get a lecture before you get any help.”

Ron batted them both away and then tried to smooth down his hair. 

“Want a comb?” Roswitha asked. “Or a mirror?”

Ron shrugged and dropped his hands to his side. “They’ll probably come to mess it up again before we get off the train.”

“Alright then.” Roswitha made a note to put a comb in her pocket before they left the train just in case Ron wanted to borrow it after they got off. “I’m going to go look for my friend Hermione after the train gets going, want to come with?” 

“Sure,” said Ron, with a shrug. “You already made a friend at Hogwarts?”

“We met in Diagon Alley,” said Roswitha, with her own shrug. “And then later at the National Portrait Gallery.”

Ron scrunched his nose up again. “A whole gallery full of portraits? It must be loud when they all want to talk.”

“Not at all,” said Roswitha with a shake of her head. “Muggle portraits don’t talk or move. Is it just the three brothers? Percy, Fred and George?”

“Two more,” said Ron, his face turning a little glum. “And a little sister.”

Roswitha couldn’t imagine having six of Draco, and he was only her cousin — but she didn’t know if that would be the right thing to say. 

The train began to move, rolling along the platform, so it turned out that Roswitha didn’t have to say anything since Ron went to the window and began to look for his family. A woman and a girl with bright red hair waved at him, and Ron waved back. “Bye, Mum! Bye, Ginny!” 

“Good luck this term, dear!” Mrs. Weasley called back.

Roswitha knew there would be no one for her to wave too — what with Pappa insistent that he would blubber, and Father already at school, and Lucius and Narcissa having exited fifteen minutes earlier. But she still waved to wave, so she wouldn’t look out of place on the train. 

Ginny, Ron’s sister, ran to the edge of the platform, as Fred and George yelled, “Don’t worry, Ginny! We’ll send you a toilet seat!” 

Mrs. Weasley’s echoing cry of, “No you will not!” followed them down the track. 

Ron laughed, and Roswitha did as well. 

“Want to walk around?” Roswitha asked. 

“Alright,” said Ron. 

As they stepped out into the corridor, Roswitha asked the one question that seemed to always be a hit with wizarding boys (in her limited experience), “So, who’s your pick for quidditch?” 

Ron had an opinion on this subject. His love for the Chudley Cannons carried their entire conversation until they spotted Hermione sitting in an open car, which was about five minutes since they had left their compartment. In that time, Ron had scarcely drawn breath, something at which Roswitha marveled. 

“Anyway,” said Ron, when Hermione spotted them and came towards them. “I just think this is their year.” 

“Ros!” said Hermione, throwing her arms around Roswitha’s neck. 

“Er, I’m Ron,” said Ron. 

“Not _Ron_,” said Hermione, a grin on her face. “Ros as in Roswitha. I’m Hermione.” Hermione shook his hand while Ron was still a little dazed by her. 

“Nice to meet you,” was all Ron managed to say. 

“Likewise,” said Hermione. “By the way, have either of you seen a toad? Neville’s lost his.”

They both shook their heads. 

“Where was he last?” Roswitha asked as she and Ron followed Hermione back to her former seat. 

“Neville had him when he got on,” said Hermione. 

There were two boys sitting on the benches — one had dark brown skin, curly black hair cropped close to his head, and a regal jaw. The other had blond hair (more the color of wheat than the color that the Malfoys’ hair was), a round face, and eyes which he averted to the ground. Roswitha turned to the round-faced boy and asked, “Is this the first time he’s gotten away from you?”

Neville shook his head. “I’m always losing him!”

“Maybe you should let him stay lost, then,” said the other boy. “If he likes it that way.”

“I would, but my Great-Uncle Agie gave him to me as a gift for getting into Hogwarts.” Neville shuddered a little. “He won’t like it if I don’t find Trevor.”

“If he’s gotten away before, where does he normally go?” Roswitha asked. 

Neville frowned. “Usually to a pond by the garden — somewhere cool and damp.”

The other boy frowned. “The only place cool and damp on the train is going to be the toilet.”

“Oh.” Neville frowned. “You’re right, Dean. Now I have to ask a girl to check the toilet for a toad.”

Roswitha only shrugged. “I’ll do it.” 

Neville looked up at her for the first time, and Roswitha could see his eyes were a dark brown, like the color of wet earth in a garden. “You will?”

“Sure.” Roswitha had never seen a toad before, and she figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble.

Dean stood up. “Why don’t the rest of us go and look down the corridors to see if anyone else has spotted him.”

“I’m in,” said Ron quickly, and Hermione nodded too.

“Why don’t we meet back at our compartment in ten minutes or so?” Roswitha asked. “Do you remember where it is, Ron?” 

Ron nodded, and the five of them split up.

“Thank you for helping me,” said Neville as they walked toward the toilets. His cheeks were flush, making the freckles there stand out. “I don’t know how Trevor keeps getting away from me.” 

“Maybe if he likes going places that are wet you could make him a small pond in the dorms,” said Roswitha suggested. She stopped abruptly. “Er, do you know where we’re going?”

“Oh! Yes.” Neville nodded emphatically. “My gran had me use the toilet straight away when I got on the train.” He led the way and it turned out they had been going in the right direction all along.

There were two toilets, one for boys and one for girls. They split up at the entrance, and Roswitha found that when she entered the toilets, they were much bigger on the inside than they had been on the outside, like Menaçant was. From there, it was much like any other girls’ loo — there were six stalls and three girls still waiting in line. Roswitha spied a stall door wide open, despite the line.

“Is there a toad in that stall, by any chance?” Roswitha asked. 

The girls wrinkled their noses. “It’s not yours is it?”

“No,” said Roswitha. She took a towel from the sinks and entered into the stall. Sure enough, in the bowl of the toilet “Trevor?” The toad turned to her slightly and croaked. “Come out of there, your boy is looking for you.” 

Trevor croaked again and lept from the bowl in opposite direction of Roswitha. The girl in the next stall screamed, but before Trevor could leap again, Roswitha reached out with the towel and wrapped it firmly around him. “Naughty toad!” she said. “Trying to run away like that…”

“Nice catch!” said one of the girls waiting in line. 

“Thanks,” said Roswitha, heading for the door. 

“You found him!” Neville crowed as he took Trevor from her and held him close. 

“He was in the toilet, just so you know,” said Roswitha. She suddenly had the urge to wash her hands, now that she thought about it.

“Thank you!” said Neville. His round face upturned easily into a smile. 

“You’re welcome,” said Roswitha, unable to do anything but smile back. “Er, let me go wash my hands and then we’ll go back to the compartment, eh?” 

When they made their way back to the compartment, Dean, Hermione and Ron had already settled into their seats. “Cards?” Dean asked, shuffling a deck. “They don’t explode, but it’s fun all the same.”

“I still don’t understand how you know who’s winning if they don’t explode,” said Ron, shaking his head.

Roswitha and Neville settled into the compartment seats as well, and Dean dealt out a round of cards. Despite Ron protesting the lack of explosions, and Neville protesting that he had never played cards before, they all ended up having a grand time. They played rounds and rounds of cards until their stomachs began to grumble. 

It was then that the compartment door slid open, and revealed a witch pushing a trolley, asking if they would like any sweets. 

Roswitha had never had wizarding sweets before and had to stop herself from buying two of everything. Instead, she took Neville’s recommendation of a pumpkin pasty, and Ron’s suggestion to buy a couple of chocolate frogs, like he had. “After all, if the frog gets away, you still have the trading card.” 

Then, they pulled out their lunches and began to trade around. Ron didn’t like roast beef, so he traded one of his sandwiches to Neville, for a chicken sandwich, and the other to Dean for a packet of crisps. Hermione was perfectly content for a curry which was still warm in its container — though she was happy to share with anyone who wanted to try some as long as they shared in kind. Roswitha, meanwhile, had a set of elves under the impression that she was taking a week long trek rather than a nine hour train ride. As such, she had a basket full of sandwiches, small meat pies, fried chicken, boiled eggs, fruits, veg, dips, a full four litres of pumpkin juice, glasses, brownies, a lemon cake, and butter biscuits. 

Thankfully, they were five eleven-year-olds with a tremendous appetite, but still the meal seemed like more than all of them could manage.

“I’ll put some of it back,” said Roswitha resolutely. “The basket will keep it all fresh — there are enchantments on it, you see. I didn’t realize how much they had packed.”

As if on queue, Draco appeared in the doorway with some other children. He wrinkled his nose. “Who were your elves trying to feed, an army?”

“Don’t be mean,” Roswitha chided him. “Bits has been crushed for weeks that I’m going to school, he probably just got excited. Come in, you can help us all eat it.” Then she put her hand on the seat cushion and said, “Could we have some more room please?” 

The cushion felt warm under her hand and then the seats began to expand, as did the table that held all the food. 

“Woah!” said Ron, his eyes going wide. 

Dean got up on his knees and peered through the window. “We’re still the same size on the outside, well done, Ros.” 

“How on _earth_ did you do that?” asked one of the girls who had come with Draco as they now started filtering into the compartment. 

Roswitha blinked. “I asked nicely. That’s really all you have to do with magical places most of the time. Anyway, this is Ron, Dean, Hermione, Neville, and I’m Roswitha. Pleased to meet you all.”

Accompanying Draco was his friend Pansy Parkinson, another boy he knew named Blaise Zabini, and a redheaded girl named Susan Bones. “We might have had Heather Potter with us, but I’ve looked up and down this train and I couldn’t find her.” 

“Who’s Heather Potter?” Roswitha asked, wrinkling her nose as everyone settled in, and she began pouring drinks.

Here everyone turned to her oddly. “Cousin Regulus never mentioned?” Draco asked.

“No,” said Roswitha shaking her head.

“And you haven’t read anything about her?” Hermione inquired. “She’s mentioned in _Modern Magical History _and _the Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century._ I didn’t realize she was our age though — the books always make her sound like a witch grown.”

“Her name _does_ sound familiar,” said Roswitha, frowning. There was a vague tickle at the back of her mind when she thought of the name Heather Potter, but nothing else. “But I just can’t place it.”

“Heather Potter defeated the Dark Lord, cousin,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. “And she is our age — she should have been in our year, even. Strange that she’s not here.” 

“Well, in any case,” said Susan gently, as she took a glass of pumpkin juice from Roswitha. “What houses are everyone expecting?”

“Gryffindor for me,” said Ron, with a small shrug. “Everyone in my family’s been in there so far — though I heard my brothers talking and they all said they were almost sorted into other houses, so who knows?”

“What other house?” Blaise asked.

“Let’s see,” Ron began to tick off his fingers, “Ravenclaw for Bill, Hufflepuff for Charlie, Ravenclaw and Slytherin and Hufflepuff for Percy, and Slytherin for the twins.” 

“I honestly can’t decide which I would want,” said Hermione, interjecting. “They all seem to have their qualities.” 

“Even Slytherin?” Pansy asked, watching all of them intently

“Oh yes,” said Hermione with a nod. “To be cunning is a great quality — when I read about Slytherin’s archetypes, I honestly thought of Robin Hood or Merlin.”

“Robert, 1st Earl of Locksley was a Ravenclaw,” said Susan, knowledgably, tilting her head to one side. “But I admit, you have a point about his cunning.” 

“What about Merlin?” Dean asked. 

“He was before the founding of Hogwarts,” said Blaise, reaching for a piece of chicken. “But most scholars think he and Morgana both would be Slytherins. Just like I’m going to be.”

“Me as well,” said Pansy. She tilted her head to one side, imitating Susan earlier and said, “What about you Neville?”

“Hufflepuff for sure,” said Neville, with a nod. 

“That’s wonderful,” said Roswitha, with a smile. “I admire people who are committed to hard work.”

Neville froze in his seat, flushing a bright red.

Pansy, who was sitting next to Roswitha, elbowed her in the side. “It’s not nice to make people blush.”

“I appreciate that, too, though,” said Susan, catching Roswitha’s eye. “My dad was in Hufflepuff and so was my auntie, and now she’s the head of the Department of Law Enforcement.”

“Really?” asked Dean. “My mum’s a counterterrorism agent with the muiggle government, and my step-dad always says I’m a lot like her. So, I thought I’d be a Gryffindor, but I suppose you have to be really dedicated and hardworking to do law enforcement work.” 

“Exactly!” said Susan. “Everyone always thinks politics is Slytherin and law work is Gryffindor, but there are more Hufflepuffs in those jobs than any other house.” 

“Well, I know that I’m going to be a Slytherin,” said Draco, with a nod. “My whole family has been. So has Roswitha’s.”

“Uncle Sirius was a Gryffindor,” said Roswitha, patiently. 

“Sirius Black?” asked Susan and Hermione at once. 

“Yes, that one,” said Roswitha with a sigh. 

“What’s your uncle done?” asked Dean. 

“Bad things,” said Roswitha before Susan or Hermione could answer. “Bad enough to land him in Azkaban Prison for life and bad enough that it will spoil lunch if I say. I’ll tell you later if you want.” 

“Azkaban, really?” asked Ron. Then he squeaked. “Ow! Scabbers! Geroff!” Ron lifted up his finger where there was a rat attached to him. Hermione gasped, but Ron only grabbed the rat by his scruff and pulled him free. “Bad rat!”

“You’re bleeding,” said Neville, his face a little pale. 

“Hold out your finger,” said Pansy, drawing her wand. 

Ron did so, only hesitating a moment. 

“_Episkey_,” said Pansy, tapping Ron’s finger.

A second later the wound was healed and no longer bleeding, though Susan had to loan him a hanky to wipe off the blood already there. “Thanks,” said Ron. “I’ll have to remember that spell.” 

“Six siblings and you haven’t learned any healing spells yet?” Pansy asked. 

“Mum confiscates all our wands when we’re at home,” said Ron, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure Fred and George know how to get theirs back, but I doubt they’ll tell me.”

“You’re right,” said Draco, holding out his glass to Roswitha for more pumpkin juice. “They should have been in Slytherin.” 

“You could have poured that drink yourself, you know,” said Susan, frowning at Draco.

“Well, yes, but Roswitha is hosting, so I’m helping her practice,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. “Of course, _I_ know how to pour a drink.”

“We don’t have to practice all the time, Draco,” said Pansy, kicking him under the seat. 

“Hosting?” Hermione added.

That lead to a discussion on etiquette, which Roswitha had begun learning over the past two years and in which Draco, Blaise, Pansy, and Susan were already very well versed. Hermione listened with rapt attention, while Ron merely continued eating, Neville went very pale again, and Dean seemed vaguely interested.

“Anyway,” said Roswitha. “There’s an etiquette group that meets every Thursday to practice skills right after supper.”

“Are they still accepting people?” Neville asked, his voice soft and shaking. “My Gran really wants me to learn all that, but I’m not very good at all of it.” 

“Just make sure to show up the first night,” said Pansy, taking one of the bottles of pumpkin juice and pouring her own cup. “The rule is you have to show up at the first meeting of the year and not to miss unless you’re in the hospital wing or there’s a feast that night. Other than that, you don’t need to be invited.” 

“You said there was a book, too?” Hermione asked. 

“Yes, though it’s bigger than it looks,” said Roswitha.

Susan and Pansy nodded. “Almost a thousand pages packed into an inch and a half,” said Susan. “Heaven knows why.”

“So you could carry it in your reticule,” Pansy added. She tapped her chin. “I wonder if we ought to bring reticules back into fashion.” 

“I prefer my satchel, thank you,” said Roswitha. “I’ll let you borrow my copy, though, Hermione, if you want to read it.” 

“Blast.” All eyes turned to Ron who was opening a chocolate frog. “I’ve got Morgana again and I already have six of her. Anyone want the card?”

“You have _six_?” Blaise asked, holding out his hand. “I’ve never even gotten one!” 

Lunch went on, eating until they couldn’t eat anymore (and even then, they still had food that Roswitha had to pack away because her elves loved her and wanted to make sure she had enough to eat). Roswitha opened her chocolate frogs, catching them both before they could escape, her reflexes sharpened by boxing practice and the earlier encounter with Trevor. Roswitha found she had a card for Newton A.F. Scamander and one for Albus Dumbledore, their headmaster. 

“_Albus Dumbledore,_” the card read, “_Current Headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling._”

“No one should have a chocolate frog card until they’re dead,” said Pansy as she read over Roswitha’s shoulder. Then she stretched and said, “I’m going to go have a walk — too much food by far. Walk with me, Draco?”

Draco nodded, and Blaise rolled his eyes, letting Draco out and then waiting in the corridor as Draco turned to Roswitha and said, “See you at Hogwarts, cousin.”

“See you there,” Roswitha agreed.

“I’m going to go find my friend, Hannah,” said Susan, also standing in the doorway, since she had had to move to let Pansy out. “I’ll see you all later.” 

“Bye!” the five of them chimed. 

“I don’t think I need a walk, but I do need the loo,” said Dean.

They all shuffled around, and in the end the five of them left the compartment to stretch their legs or use the bathroom. Dean got drawn into another game with other students on the way back, and somewhere they managed to lose Neville. Roswitha checked the time after going from one end of the train to the other and finding herself restless, and saw it was just gone two. Normally, around this time, she would be going to her boxing lessons. As it was, they probably still had another four or five hours until they arrived. And that was how, when Ron and Hermione returned to the compartment, they found Roswitha doing push ups. 

“Er…” said Ron. 

“I’m getting restless,” said Roswitha looking up at them. 

“Do you need me to sit on top of you?” Hermione asked, looking mildly fascinated by the number of pushups Roswitha was cranking out. 

Roswitha stopped, resting in plank position for a moment. “I’ve never tried that, so if I drop you, you’re not allowed to get angry.” 

“Deal.”

Ron sat on the charis, legs folded up underneath him, counting almost in a chant as Roswitha did push ups, Hermione balancing on her back. 

“What on earth is going on in here?” asked a redheaded boy, already wearing his school robes. 

“Percy!” Ron cheered. “Ros has done almost 40 push ups with Hermione on her back.” 

Percy Weasley blinked rapidly, his horn rimmed glasses falling down his nose. “Well stop!” he said at last. “And you might want to consider getting changed.”

“It’s half two,” said Roswitha, while Hermione climbed down from her back. “Won’t it be another few hours?”

“Yes, but consider, there is one loo on this train and everyone is getting changed at the same time.” Percy rolled his eyes. “At least, _start _getting ready. And comb your hair, Ron, it looks like a bird’s nest.”

Ron flushed at his brother’s direction, but Roswitha patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll comb it for you when we get off the train so Fred and George can’t mess it up again.”

“He is sort of right, though,” said Hermione, at the compartment door. “I’d better go get my robes — maybe we can hang something over the compartment door and change in here, boys and then girls?”

“Sounds alright by me,” said Ron, nodding. 

Neville appeared, face lighting up at the sight of them. “I found you again!”

“C’mon, Neville,” said Hermione taking him by the hand. “Let’s go get our school robes.”

After making a makeshift curtain on the door and windows of the compartment, Ron and Neville changed first. A good thing too, since it turned out neither of them knew how to tie a tie. Hermione did though, and she demonstrated on Neville. Ron couldn’t quite manage it on himself, but Roswitha got it for him after a few tries. Then they kicked the boys out so they could change as well. 

Tying a tie, Roswitha found, was easier to do on yourself when you had mastered it on someone else. Still, Hermione straightened it for her, and when they had put both sets of their day clothes into Roswitha’s trunk (since they would be safe their, and Roswitha could always get them back to her after they had settled in that night or the next day). After they allowed the boys back in, Roswitha began brushing out her hair, and braided a part of it so she could pin it as a band running over the top of her head from one ear to the other. 

“Why did you do that?” Hermione asked. She had stared at Roswitha’s fingers as she braided, transfixed.

“Well,” said Roswitha, talking around the two pins still in her mouth as she fixed the braid in place. “This is the first time we’ll be meeting everyone at school. Can’t hurt to make a good impression.” 

Hermione, Ron, and Neville all considered this for a moment as Roswitha fixed the rest of her pins in silence. 

“Could I borrow your brush?” Hermione asked after a moment. 

“Oh no!” A girl who had been walking by their compartment with another set of twins stopped, saying, “Not a brush — a comb maybe.”

“Er…” Roswitha reached into her pocket and held out a comb. “Sure?”

“Oh.” The girl flush, her brown cheeks lighting up. “Sorry, I’m Lavender, this is Parvati and Padma. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but if you try to brush it out, it’ll probably just frizz really badly.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, finding a smile on her face. “Thanks. Say, did the three of you need somewhere to change?” She nodded to the robes in their arms.

“Go take a walk boys,” said Roswitha, taking their makeshift curtain in hand again. 

The boys grumbled a bit, but didn’t protest too much as they left the compartment, wondering aloud where Dean had gotten to. 

Roswitha and Hermione introduced themselves as Parvati changed while Padma brushed out her own hair and Lavender worked on Hermione’s hair. When Parvati finished, she changed places with Padma and offered to put a ribbon through Roswitha’s braid. As they went, the girls chatted about what had become the usual questions (what house were they expecting) as well as some other questions (were those boys their boyfriends? No, alright. Well, who was cuter— which devolved into talking about wizarding celebrities). 

When the four were ready, they opened the door and found that another hour had gone by. With the time they took changing before, they still had an hour left of their journey. Lavender, Parvati, and Padma wished them goodbye so they could repack their day clothes into their own trunks and wandered off. 

“I might actually go spare,” said Roswitha. 

“Try to think about it this way,” said Hermione. “Tomorrow you’ll have the grounds of a castle to run your heart out on.” 

“I suppose,” said Roswitha. 

“And!” said Hermione. “A trip from London to Glasgow would normally take nine or ten hours. The trip to Hogwarts only takes about six, since there are no stops and the train can go faster with magic.” 

Roswitha managed a smile. “Thanks, Hermione.” She didn’t feel any less restless, but Hermione trying to cheer her up made her happy. “Shall we go find the boys and, I dunno, have a round of ‘I spy?’”

Even when they did find the boys, and a host of other first years, the game did nothing to calm her. She worried that her pappa hadn’t meant what he said when he told her it didn’t matter that she got into Slytherin. _Or worse_, thought Roswitha, _what if they don’t let me in?_ What if doing magic too far in advance disqualified you from Hogwarts? What if they thought she was too stuck up or not a proper witch? What if they just dismissed her during the sorting? What if, what if, what if?

At last, Roswitha forced her mind to stop the tumult by taking a deep breath. _I belong at Hogwarts, _she thought to herself. _I am Roswitha Artemis Black_, she thought, her name becoming a matra that soothed her. _I am Roswitha Artemis Black_. 

The train began to roll to a stop. 

And announcement issued over the train, “Please leave your luggage, your items will be taken to the school separately.”

“This is it!” said Ron, his face bright with excitement. He scowled a second later though, when Fred and George ran passed and mussed his hair. 

Roswitha laughed and produced the comb from her pocket. Nearby, Parvati produced a mirror and held it for Ron so he could comb his hair. Then, when he parted it down the middle, Parvati took the comb from him and parted it to one side for him. 

As they exited the train they saw a large man — so tall he could nearly see over the train, but had a soft roundness to him with a big, bushy, black beard — calling out, “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”

They were already clumped together and so moved as one, some people chittering and chatting to one another, wondering how they would be sorted, wondering where they would be sorted, which classes they might like best. Roswitha continued to mutter to herself, “I am Roswitha Artemis Black, I belong at Hogwarts, I am Roswitha Artemis Black, I belong at Hogwarts—”

“Ros?” Hermione asked, her warm hand slipping into Roswitha’s. “Are you okay? You look like you’re in a trance.” 

Roswitha squeezed Hermione’s hand. “I’m alright, Mi. Just nervous.” 

Hermione snorted. “Oh, so just you then.”

Roswitha rolled her eyes and bumped into Hermione’s side. 

The tall man was counting under his breath and when he reached the number forty, he raised his voice, “Right then, you lot, follow me.” 

The all followed after, walking in a large group. It was getting dark now and the ground was more than a little slippery. The group of first years kept their eyes on the lantern the large man held in his hand that swung back and forth as he walked, sure footed down the path. As they ducked under a bridge, it became the only light that they had. They came out of the tunnel in less than a minute, but somehow it seemed darker on the other end. 

The large man called over his shoulder, “You’ll get yer first sight o’ Hogwarts in a minute.” 

They rounded a bend and —

_Oh_, thought Roswitha as she heard the others around her gasp. _Oh_, she thought. It had seemed too odd before her now, the excitement of the others at Hogwarts and going back to Hogwarts and the importance the adults she had spoke with placed on it with every syllable they spoke. But now, as she saw the stone castle, with its towers and parapets, pressed against the night sky clouded with stars, Roswitha understood every feeling, every emotion that ever had been impressed on her. 

_Please_, she thought_, please let me belong here._

A small harbor appeared at the end of the path and the large man called out, “No more’n four to a boat!” 

Hermione and Roswitha clamored onto a boat, followed swiftly by Susan Bones and a blonde girl Roswitha reckoned must have been her friend Hannah. Ron, Neville, Dean and another boy climbed into a boat near them, the boys waving. 

“Everyone in?” asked the large man, looking around and making a quick head count of them. “Right then!” He pulled a pink umbrella from his fur coat, calling, “Forward!” 

The boats began to move along the water, almost gliding, without the need of oars or rowing. Hermione had begun to grow nervous now too, as she began to recite spells under her breath. About half way across the lake, she asked, “Ros, we’ll still be friends if we’re not in the same house, right?”

“Of course!” said Roswitha. “Even if I’m in Slytherin and you’re in Gryffindor.”

“You should make a blood oath,” Hannah piped up from behind them. “That’s what Susan and I did.”

“Only, maybe make sure there’s a nurse around,” Susan added with a solemn nod. “Ours started to turn green after a day — nothing St. Mungo’s couldn’t fix, but my Auntie was furious.”

“So were my parents,” Hannah chirped. But they smiled at one another like best friends do, saying that it had been worth it. 

Roswitha smiled, in spite of the information. “Maybe we’ll wait until we get to the school, then.” 

When they did arrive at an underground harbor, stone steps cut into the rock of Hogwarts’ foundation, though, it all seemed too soon. They climbed out of the boats, following the large man and his lantern up the stone steps until they came to a door out in the open air. The large man raised his hand and knocked on the door three times. 

It opened in an instant. A tall witch, wearing a pointed hat and green, tartan robes appeared. 

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said the large man.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Roswitha echoed, the other members of the class echoing after her.

Hagrid flushed. “‘Twas nothing, but yer welcome all the same.”

“I’ll take them from here,” said Professor McGonagall, turning her attention back to the group. “Well, a politer bunch we’ve never had.” She pulled the doors wide and let them into the cavernous, stone entrance hall, lit by torches. “Follow me.”


	6. The Voice of Hogwarts Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would you do if you awoke to found a candle beckoning you to follow. Roswitha follows it.

Their group of first year students stepped into the large hall where, immediately to their right, stood another, large set of doors, almost as tall as the castle ceiling. Behind the doors, thick as they were, still came a great buzz of sound — it must have been the Great Hall, Roswitha realized. Professor McGonagall did not lead them there, though, instead taking them through a much smaller set of doors. They could still hear the buzz of people, so they must have been just off the hall.

The first years all huddled together nervously as Professor McGonagall sized them up.

Once she had gotten a good look at them, Professor McGonagall said, “Welcome to Hogwarts. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend your free time in your house common room.

“The four houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting. I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly.”

“Ros,” Neville whispered in her ear, “will you help me with my robe, I can’t get it right.”

Roswitha nodded, and straightened out Neville’s robes so they lay flat and with all the buttons in the right holes. At the last second she also straightened his tie, which had become loosened on their journey.

“Thanks,” said Neville.

“You’re welcome,” said Roswitha. She brushed down her own robes. “Do I look alright?”

Neville’s cheeks flushed pink and he nodded. “You look perfect.”

Draco appeared at Neville’s side. “You’re trying for Slytherin, right?”

“I’m trying for wherever I’m meant to be sorted,” said Roswitha. “We’ll still be friends and cousins no matter where we’re sorted, right?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “_Of course_. But it will be easier to do those things if we’re in the same house.”

Professor McGonagall reappeared. “Form a line,” she commanded. When they had all shuffled into place, she nodded her approval. “Follow me.”

They entered into the great hall toward the front, between the elevated staff table, and for tables perpendicular to the staff table, each bearing banners and colors of the four houses. Professor McGonagall stopped them, then went to the very end of the staff table to fetch a stool and a hat. Before Roswitha could begin to wonder what the hat could have to do with sorting, a face appeared above the hat’s brim and began to _sing_.

_“Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.  
There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folks use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!”

The whole school burst into applause — the first years did too, though plenty of them seemed just as confused as Roswitha felt — even those who had grown up in wizard households.

With one hand, Professor McGonagall pulled a scroll from her robe sleeve and unfurled it. With the other hand, she pulled the hat up by its pointed tip. “Abbot, Hannah!” she read from the parchment.

Roswitha turned to where Hannah was sharing a spot in line with Susan. Hannah positively froze with all eyes on her, such that Susan had to push her forward. Roswitha patted her back, as Hannah walked passed her, wide-eyed and afraid.

Hannah sat down on the stool, and Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on her head. There was a buzzing — Roswitha could see the Hat moving a little, and she could see Hannah’s lips moving as well, but could not hear anything spoken between them. Then, in the loudest voice Roswitha had ever heard, the Hat declared, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Hufflepuff house rose from their table bedecked with black and yellow with a furor of cheers. Hannah handed the hat back to Professor McGonagall, and ran to the end of the Hufflepuff table where there was a free spot for the first years.

“Black, Roswitha!” Professor McGonagall called.

Roswitha suddenly understood Hannah’s hesitation — she had never been second for anything before. Somehow, she willed her legs to move, and before Roswitha knew it, she had sat down on the stool and was staring out at hundreds of faces across the great hall. The weight of the Sorting Hat settled on her head.

_Oh my_, said the Sorting Hat without speaking aloud — or she thought it hadn’t at least. _My, my what secrets you hold, Miss Black? If I may call you Miss Black, that is._

Roswitha murmured, “Well, yes, my name is Roswitha Artemis Black — I suppose you could call me Roswitha if you wanted.”

She glanced up at Professor McGonagall. “It’s like with Hannah, right? No one can hear us.”

_Yes,_ said the Sorting Hat. _That’s right. You’re very observant, aren’t you? _

“I try to be,” said Roswitha. “And this stays between us? No one will know what you find out?”

_No one but me. Hmmm, curious, very curious._

“Mr. Ollivander said the same thing when I got my wand.”

_He was right to wonder. I remember everyone I’ve sorted, the same as he remembers every wand he’s sold. You do remind me a little of the one they would call the Dark Lord. He was only called Tom then, though._

“Tom, really?”

_Really. Though that is beside the point. You easily have enough of yourself in you — not too much like your father or your uncle or _him. _Spent so much time hiding, haven’t you? Been clever about what you tell people — read all your books, that’s very smart — made friends to whom you’re already loyal._

“So, how do you decide then? If I fit three houses which do I go to?”

_You forget, Miss Black, your own bravery. Not everyone could do as you have done. You are strong, you’d do well to remember that; cunning, smart, loyal and more, but very strong. You’d do well in… _“GRYFFINDOR!”

The Gryffindor table burst into applause as the Hufflepuffs had before them. Roswitha smiled up at Professor McGonagall as she handed off the Hat, and she thought Professor McGonagall gave a little smile back. The Weasley twins were all grins, though, bowing to her as she approached the table, crying out, “M’lady.”

Roswitha only laughed at them, curtsied and took her seat. Professor McGonagall was already calling up the next student, “Bones, Susan,” and Roswitha turned her attention forward. She was glad of it, because Susan was immediately sorted into Hufflepuff. The next two people to be sorted, Terry Boot and Mandy Brocklehurt, both went to Ravenclaw, before Lavender Brown joined Roswitha at the Gryffindor table. The next girl in line, Millicent Bulstrode, was the first to join Slytherin.

As the Hat talked with the other students, Roswitha marveled that for some students he knew in an instant where they were meant to go (like Susan, or eventually Draco and Ron) whereas some students he would talk with longer (like Hermione and Neville) before pronouncing their house.

Percy Weasley was on her left side as she watched Hermione argue with the hat (though she couldn’t hear anything), so Roswitha turned to him and asked, “How does it know?”

Even at the vague question, Percy knew what she meant. “No one’s quite sure. The hat was enchanted by Godric Gryffindor more than a millennium ago now. It supposed to be able to divine a little of who you are, but more so who you will be.”

“It can see the future?” asked Roswitha, feeling like all the air had been punched out of her.

“Sort of,” said Percy, wrinkling his nose. “Supposedly. It more sees the possibilities, I think.”

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted, and Hermione ran up and sandwiched herself between Roswitha and Percy, since Fay Dunbar already sat on Roswitha’s other side.

Roswitha and Fay only laughed, though, and scooted down on the bench.

Roswitha felt lighter — now that she was sorted she definitely had a place at Hogwarts. The Hat said it would keep her secrets, and she believed it. Any worry or fear she had had seemed to melt into a hunger. A very real hunger since her belly had begun to rumble. Roswitha resisted the urge to check her watch, and instead looked up and watched the sorting.

At last, when they had gone through the P’s, the R’s, the T’s, Weasley, Ron, and Zambini, Blaise, all in their year were sorted. Professor McGonagall rolled up her list and moved the stool and the hat to one side. As Professor McGonagall climbed up onto the dais that held the professors’ table, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat.

“Short speech, short speech,” Fred and George chanted under their breath, a few of their year mates nearby joining in, with their fingers crossed.

“Welcome!” said Professor Dumbledore, raising his arms like he was trying to hug all of the great hall. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! Before we begin I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak!”

As he sat back down, food appeared on the table in an instant. Everyone clapped and cheered, partly at Professor Dumbledore’s short speech and mostly for the food. The rest of Gryffindor tucked in immediately, and Roswitha followed suit.

As Roswitha looked around at the array of artfully cooked food, she realized that Hogwarts must have house elves, or feeding a faculty and nearly 300 students such a varied feast would be quite difficult. Roswitha took a cut of steak from a roast, potatoes, carrots and peas, drizzling a gravy over her veg, and began to cut up her steak in earnest.

“It seems like lunch was ages ago,” said Ron as began to cut up the chicken he had taken to his plate.

“Even though Ros brought enough food to feed a small country,” said Dean with a chuckle.

As he was at the other end of the table, Roswitha chucked a dinner roll at him, which Dean caught making all the first years cheer.

Percy groaned. “Please, don’t throw food. I don’t need you lot encouraging Fred and George.”

Fred and George said nothing to this — they only pelted Percy with a roll each, making the first year’s laugh, even when Percy caught both the rolls.

“Careful there, Perce,” said a boy his age from down the table. “Or I’ll be out of my position.”

Percy only rolled his eyes and continued eating. Roswitha turned her eyes back to her yearmates.

There were ten of them — six girls and four boys. They all seemed rather animated as they chatted away about where they were from, which of their parents were wizards (if any), and turned to her expectantly when Dean asked, “What about you Ros?”

“Er, well I know my dad was for sure, but I don’t really anything about my mum,” she said.

“You’ve never met your mum?” Sophie Roper asked.

Roswitha shook her head. “No — I’m an orphan. Well, I was an orphan before I found out Pappa was alive, and then he met Father.”

“What’s that like?” Seamus Finnigan asked her, only to be elbowed in the side by Lavender. “Ow! What, I’m just curious.”

Roswitha shrugged. “Well, it’s all pretty normal now — I’ve got two parents, and they make me go to bed on time and help with chores, and they help me with my school work, and sometimes take me to work. Hermione could tell you, she’s met them both.”

Hermione nodded emphatically. “The Mr. Blacks are very charming.”

Roswitha snorted as, though she liked her father a great deal, she had never heard anyone describe him as charming. She turned to the high table to get a good look at him, dressed in more subdued black robes than he normally wore during the summer months, and found him engaged in conversation with a man wearing a purple turban. Roswitha wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t like the look of the man. Learning over to Percy she asked, “Who’s that talking to Professor Snape?”

“That’s Professor Quirrel,” said Percy, following Roswitha’s gaze. “He used to teach Muggle Studies, but now that Professor Burbage is back from sabbatical, they must have moved him to defense.” Then Percy turned toward her. “How on earth do you already know who Professor Snape is?”

“Ah…” Here was a moment Roswitha had not anticipated. Did she tell her friends that Professor Snape was also “Father.” Or… Hermione winked at her, and Roswitha said, “He’s friends with Pappa, they went to school together. He seems nice — he recommended some supplemental texts to me.” More like Father had given them to her and simply instructed her to read them.

“Do you like him?” Parvati asked in a sing-song voice.

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, nothing says love like additional text books. Also, gross, he’s a teacher and literally old enough to be my father.” And aside from that, he actually _was_ her father. She raised a roll to throw it at Parvati, but Percy grabbed her hand before she could.

“No more throwing rolls now, I mean it!” he said.

Several people, from different parts of the table, and the Hufflepuff table next to theirs chimed back with, “Anybody want a peanut?”

The feast continued on, new dishes appearing as the old ones were eaten, the food slowly transitioning to pudding, and when that was nearly gone, Professor Dumbledore rose to give start of term announcements starting with new teaching appointments, and ending with a dire warning about the third floor corridor on the right hand side.

Percy turned to glare at Fred and George who crossed their hearts, and then turned to Ron. “Not you either, d’you understand?”

Ron scowled. “Why on earth would I want to die a painful death?”

The feast finished with a school song that made no sense and had no set tune. When they finished, Roswitha felt her spirits at the highest they had been all day.

Percy and other fifth year prefect corralled them together, pausing only when Parvati ran quickly to the Ravenclaw table to hug her sister goodnight. The Percy and Alexandra guided them out the great hall and through the corridors until they came to a set of staircases. Roswitha feared they might have to climb to the top, but instead, they only went up about three flights of stairs until they came to a particular portrait that Roswitha could not see at first. There Percy said, “Caput Draconis,” and the portrait swung open as if on a hinge. It was of a Rubenesque woman dressed in 18th century garb. Percy filed in first, with the line of Gryffindors going in after him, and Alexandra brought up the rear.

They all piled into the common room — piled was the wrong word, Roswitha realized. The common room was round and was at least fifty feet in diameter. There was a roaring fireplace in one corner, plenty of plush chairs, couches, and cushions to lounge on, and lots of tables at which they could do homework or write.

Alexandra joined Percy at the front of the group while the first years marveled at the room. “Welcome!” said Percy. “Now, as most of you saw, the password is Caput Draconis — but we do change it. New passwords and any announcements will be posted on the noticeboard next to the fireplace.”

“As tempting as it will be,” said Alexandra, picking up. “Do not tell anyone the password to the common room. We know you have family in other houses —” Roswitha felt Alexandra’s eyes rove over her and Parvati, “but it’s for the safety of all students to have a place like our protected common rooms to retreat to in case of an emergency, alright?”

“Yes,” said the first years as one.

“Good,” said Percy as he and Alexandra nodded. “Now, it’s getting late, and you all still have to unpack. Plus, it’s been a long day. Boys, follow me, and I’ll show you to your dorm.”

“Girls with me,” said Alexandra.

There were two doorways off the common room, and Alexandra led them through the right, while Percy led the boys through the left. “You’re all a bit out of luck,” said Alexandra, as they climbed the spiral stairs — every so often, there would be a landing that would lead into another room. Roswitha began to count, one, two, three. “The last class that graduated had the top floor.”

“We keep our dorm until we graduate?” Sophie asked.

“Yes indeed.”

Four rooms, then five. The other girls were huffing and puffing.

“What floor are the fifth years on?” Roswitha asked, remembering to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth.

“The third,” said Alexandra.

Six rooms, and at last, the top landing. Alexandra pressed herself into the wall and let all of them pass. “Now, remember,” she said, “I’m just a few floors down if you need anything. We’ll introduce you to the other prefects tomorrow, and you can always come to any of us if you need anything. For now, I recommend you unpack, change around the room if you want, take your baths and get a good night’s rest.”

“Thanks, Alexandra,” said Roswitha.

Alexandra smiled brightly. “You’re welcome! Now get some rest.”

Roswitha nodded and followed her year mates into their new dorm room. The room was in the shape of a circle, just as the common room had been, only this one appeared to be cut across with another wall — on that wall there was a door that led into a bathroom with three tubs, three sinks three toilets, three vanity tables. Along the round wall in the bedroom, though, there were six of everything — six beds point long ways into the room, six wardrobes, one next to each bed, six side tables, and six coffers at the end of their beds, on which had been stacked their trunks, and (in Roswitha’s case) Hedwig’s cage.

“Could I trade with someone?” Sophie asked. “I don’t want to be so close to the window.

“I’ll take the window,” said Roswitha. “I think Hedwig would like it better anyway.”

Fay didn’t want to be so close to the fireplace, which worked well when she swapped with Parvati who didn’t want to be so close to the door. Hermione and Lavender were content where they had been placed, and so no further trades were needed.

Hedwig was awake now, so Roswitha let her out of her cage and out of the window to go flying and hunting, closing it up after her. After that, she set about unpacking her her clothes and hanging them in the wardrobe, or folding them up so that they would fit nicely in the wardrobe drawers. Roswitha was glad to have the window bed, when she realized she could line her books on the windowsill as a kind of a bookshelf. They didn’t have either a bookshelf or a desk, which would make studying a little inconvenient — perhaps it was so they would use the library or the common room and be a touch social. Still, writing in her diary would be awful to do in public. She stashed her cauldron, her potions supplies, scales, and telescope in the coffer with her shoes, and her secret store of chocolate and tea. Her jewelry Roswitha kept in small box on her bedside table, with her brush and her hair pins. She didn’t wear much very often, besides her signet ring and her watch.

“Only three bath tubs!” said Lavender as she went to put away her toiletries. “Why give us six of everything in the bedroom but only three of everything in the bathroom?”

“So we’d learn to share,” said Roswitha easily. “Do you normally bathe at night or in the morning?”

“In the morning,” said Lavender.

“Me as well,” said Hermione and Parvati at the same time.

“I’m at night,” said Sophie.

“Me too,” Roswitha said with a nod.

Fay nibbled her lower lip. “I guess I’m either or, but I can try to take mine at night — or else be before or after when the morning girls go.”

There were a few other things to work out — when they all wanted to go to bed, when they all wanted to get up — would anyone care if they stored their toiletries in the bathroom — did anyone care if they shared things like treats their families had sent with them. Hermione, around the second or third question, began taking notes in a spiral bound notebook with a pencil. Eventually they had discussed everything that needed to be discussed, and Hermione nodded at her notebook. “I’ll copy it out better tomorrow,” she said. “And we can all sign if we want.”

“Why?” Fay asked, wrinkling her nose.

“I like it,” said Parvati. “It shows that we all agree.”

“Oh.” Fay nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. Yes, let’s then.”

Roswitha, Fay, and Sophie all had a bath, and then the girls changed into their pajamas. Sophie, Parvati, and Roswitha pulled out their diaries and began to write, while Lavender and Fay snuggled into bed, and Hermione read.

Perhaps it was something about the low candle light, or the crackle of the fire, or maybe the chill from the window pane, but Roswitha tired more quickly that she did normally. It was about nine o’ clock, though, not so off from her normal schedule. She closed her diary, entry unfinished, and climbed into bed. Snug under the blankets and sheets, Roswitha closed her eyes and fell asleep straight away.

It was a strange dream to be sure, but it had to be a dream all the same.

In the dream, Roswitha sat in a tiny room with a slanted ceiling, a spider in one corner weaving an intricate cobweb. Roswitha prefered to watch the spider weave rather than listen to the voices outside the cupboard.

“The school roof, Petunia!” said one voice, low and full of phlegm. “How on earth are we to pretend she’s normal when she was caught up on the school roof! And all this nonsense about the wind carrying her!”

“It isn’t as if I enjoy her… her…” the second voice was high, shrill. “We’ll just have to beat her for climbing onto the school roof! That’s all it was. And that’s what we’ll tell her — she’s young enough that she’ll still believe us.”

The first voice grumbled. “Yes. Climbing. None of this other… nonsense.” there was a pause where neither of the voices spoke. “You don’t think… well, she can’t infect Dudley can she? Because promise or no promise, I won’t have her here if she can infect him!”

“No, no!” said the second voice. “You have to be born with it. I wasn’t — and Dudley wasn’t, I’m sure of it. He’s never shown any sort of… any sort of weirdness. He’s perfect. And perfectly normal.”

There were footsteps coming closer. A great fear rose up in Roswitha — she didn’t know why. She was far too old to be jumping at footsteps, it was just suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but that tiny room.

“Wake up,” she told herself, still grabbing onto the cupboard door.

The door began to rattle. “Girl!” called out the phlegm filled voice. “Girl, you open this door at once!”

“Wake up,” Roswitha told herself. “Wake up!”

Roswitha gasped as she sat up in bed. She opened her eyes, unsure she wasn’t still dreaming. The only thing that stirred around her was the soft breathing of her roommates as they slept. Out of the corner of her eye there was a soft light — Roswitha turned, sitting up, and found a candle floating in midair. That was not so odd — there were candles floating all over the place in the Great Hall. But this one was alone.

She didn’t know how, but Roswitha had the feeling that the candle wanted to talk with her. Or perhaps whatever controlled the candle wanted to talk with her.

Slipping from the bed, Roswitha tied a dressing gown around her body and began toward the door of the dorm barefoot. The candle moved in front of her descending the spiral steps. The stone steps down to the common room were icy, but Roswitha chose to focus on the grit of the stone rubbing against her feet. She liked the way the roughness of it felt on her skin, and she could almost feel the patterns of the chisel, or magic more like, that had cut through them a millennia ago. And, was it her imagination, or had the stone begun to warm under her feet?

Before Roswitha could consider such a thing, she came out to the common room. There was no one there, and the great clock above the fireplace, illuminated by the floating candle, read five minutes past three. The whole room felt completely still — no fire crackled in the hearth, no wind whistled against the window. Roswitha breathed deeply and found a weight against her chest. It reminded her of Freyr and Freyja who would sometimes sleep on her, and she would awaken with the full weight of a kneazle on top of her. It didn't hurt. In fact, it felt comforting; it felt like home.

"Is this?" The sound of her own voice made Roswitha nearly jump. She cleared her throat and continued on. "Is this Hogwarts? Did you want to speak to me?"

Magical buildings could not talk, per say, but Menaçant had worked out a system to let her know when it was happy or wanted to do something. Hogwarts had a similar system, as a fire sprang up in the hearth, filling the room with warmth. There wasn't much wood left, so Roswitha went and took some logs from their holder nice to the fireplace and added them on. When she had, she sat down on the hearth, pressing her back into the stone wall of the fireplace.

She sat for a time, breathing like the did at the beginning and the end of a yoga class, and listened.

Hogwarts sat, too, content with her for a moment. Roswitha had a feeling, sort of like Hogwarts was telling her that she was safe here, as long as the castle had anything to say about it. That Hogwarts loved their students, all of them, naughty or nice, foolish or wise, brave or afraid, cunning or cloudy minded. There was something Hogwarts needed Roswitha to do though — and as she was the only one who could hear, Roswitha was the only one they could tell.

Roswitha felt a little fear pooling in her stomach.

Then, it was as if a hand was brushing against her hair in comfort. Hush, hush, child. You are not alone. I will not send you to your death. It needn't even be you who completes this task.

"I say."

Roswitha looked up and found a tudorian ghost staring back at her. "Er," the line of communication she had with Hogwarts fading, all Roswitha could think to say was, "Good evening."

"It is far past evening, child," said the ghost. "Much too late to be out of bed, especially in just your night things. Run along, now, back to sleep. What were you even doing out this late?"

Roswitha got to her feet, answering honestly, "The castle wanted to speak to me."

The ghost tilted his head to one side, it completely slipping off and resting on his shoulder with only one bit of skin holding on to it like a hinge. "Did it?" the ghost asked, righting his head.

"Yes, sir," said Roswitha.

The ghost bowed to her. "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service."

Rowitha curtsied. "Roswitha Artemis Black, at yours sir."

"Very good, Mistress Black," said Sis Nicholas. "Now off to bed with you — off you go."

Roswitha curtsied again and went to the girls' dorm stairs. She kept her hand on the wall as she walked and she got the feeling Hogwarts would summon her to speak more later. When she reached the top, she pulled off her dressing gown, and snuggled into her bed feeling warm, and safe, and loved.

Morning came with a low hooting at the window. Roswitha awoke with a start, fearing she was back at the beginning of it all, only to find she was in her dorm at Hogwarts, and Hedwig hooting at the window. Roswitha exhaled, letting her tense muscles relax. A stand had been added for Hedwig to perch on; she flew to it, tucked her head, and fell asleep almost immediately.

Roswitha, meanwhile, was wide awake. She knew she had no hope of going to sleep again, and so rose from the bed, changed into her running/yoga/boxing clothes, and tiptoed out of the dorm, her running shoes in hand. She found Dean in the common room, also lacing up his shoes.

“G’morning,” he said in a low voice. “Going for a run?”

“Yes,” said Roswitha. “I normally run to both of my fitness lessons — I was so restless yesterday, I started doing push ups on the train. You?”

Dean giggled. “Yeah; I was training for track and field, and for football, so I could join my local school teams. Look where I’m at now! But I still like to run.”

Roswitha checked her watch. “Well it’s just after six, and classes don’t start until nine, I think. We’ll have plenty of time.”

They left the common room and raced down the stairs to the ground floor — no one was awake yet, so they weren’t bowling anyone over. The castle door wasn’t open, but Roswitha knocked politely and it swung open for them. There was a narrow path next to the stairs which they had not seen last night that led out toward the school’s pitch. Roswitha and Dean jogged along, keeping even pace with each other as they ran.

“Do you stop and do pushups and sit-ups and things?” Dean asked, between huffs and puffs of breath

“I usually do those during boxing,” said Roswitha, speaking the same way. “But I guess I don’t have anywhere to box, right now, so it couldn’t hurt.”

They then stopped occasionally — about every five minutes, but Roswitha would forget to check her watch as running was a sort of meditation for her — and drop down to do calisthenics. Dean was a great partner for such things, as when they agreed on a number to try for, he would go in time with her, and not stop until they were done.

After thirty minutes of running and calisthenics, they headed in a straight shot for the castle doors, racing inside and up to the common room.

“_Caput Draconis,_” said Dean at the portrait door.

The portrait swung open and they loped inside.

“See you in a bit for breakfast,” said Dean.

“See you,” said Roswitha as she jogged up the stairs.

Her roommates were in various stages of waking up — Lavender’s bed was empty, and Roswitha could hear water running in the bathroom.

Hermione and Parvati were both awake, sitting up in bed, while Sophie and Fay still looked to be asleep.

“Where did you get to?” Hermione asked around a yawn.

“Went for a run,” said Roswitha. She dug into her coffer and pulled out a yoga mat unfurling it onto the floor. As a second thought, Roswitha also checked the time, and found it was about a quarter to seven — she could still fit in a half hour of yoga before she really needed to get dressed.

Parvati slipped from bed with a yawn, and pulled out her own mat, and joined Roswitha in a set of sun salutations, before they began to transition into different poses. Without speaking, they managed to find a rhythm of trading off who would decide the next pose. Hermione watched for a little bit, but then went to bathe. Sophie seemed content, for the moment, to finish writing her diary entry from yesterday (and it did not escape Roswitha that she did so at a desk which had not been there last night), but Fay got up and joined them, her yawns gradually fading away. They finished out right around the half hour mark Roswitha planned for so that Parvati could have a quick bath, while the rest of them began to get dressed.

Hair brushed, uniforms on and straightened, the girls went down the common room — they didn’t know what to take for classes and so didn’t take anything.

“We’ll just have to make sure we come back with enough time to get where we need to go,” said Sophie as they walked down to the common room.

“I wish I’d bought a watch this summer,” Fay muttered.

Roswitha open hers. “It’s nearly 7:30,” she reported.

“That’s pretty!” said Parvati.

She clicked it shut and showed it to them. “Look, it shows the phases of the moon, too.”

The other girls cooed over it as they reached the bottom of the steps and spilled out into the common room.

There were surprisingly only a few other people around the common room, including Seamus and Dean, who sat waiting for them at one of the nearby couches.

“Ron and Neville were still getting ready when we came down,” said Seamus. “Dean insisted we wait for everyone.”

“It’s what the captain here would do,” said Dean, nodding to Roswitha.

Roswitha wrinkled her nose. “I’m not the captain of anything.”

“You could be our captain, Captain,” said Dean, winking at her.

Lavender shook her head. “If she’s going to have any title, it ought to be something like centuriā.”

“But there’s not a hundred of us,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “Not even eighty. There’s barely forty people in our whole year.”

“What was the leader of a cohort called again?” Sophie asked.

“A cohort was _twice_ a century, _at least_,” said Hermione. “She could be a _decuria_ though.”

“Did I miss the lesson in primary school on military history?” Fay asked, rolling her eyes.

“Apparently,” said Dean. But he said it with a smile, and such good nature that Fay smiled back at him. “Anyway, a decurion was a cavalry officer, so in other words, a captain.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Seamus.

“None of that made any sense at all.” Sophie shook her head. “And, no offense, but there is no way I’m calling you ‘captain,’ Ros.”

“No offense taken,” said Roswitha.

Neville bounded over to them from the bottom of the boys’ stairs, catching himself as he tripped over the end of his robe. “Why are we calling Roswitha ‘captain?’” he asked.

“We’re not,” Sophie insisted.

“I am,” said Dean, “because she’s sort of the leader, innit she?”

Everyone only shrugged at that.

“We’ve only been here a day,” said Roswitha, her brow furrowing. “How on earth am I the leader so far? How is anyone the leader?”

Lavender looked her up and down, head cocked to one side. “You are very good at leading.”

A new set of footsteps drew their gaze as Ron burst forth from the boys’ stairwell, and then stopped short, his eyes going wide at the sight of him. “You all waited for me?” he asked, his face turning red.

“Of course,” said Roswitha, feeling more confused than ever.

“See?” Dean asked. “You’re the captain.”

Roswitha rolled her eyes and then went and took Ron by the hand. “C’mon — we’ll want to get down to breakfast as soon as we can so we can come and get our things for class and not be late.”

The ten of them fell into step with one another, though it did not escape Roswitha’s notice that Dean was humming some sort of march as they went.

There were a few other students in the Great Hall when they arrived and no other teachers. They sat as a group near where they had been last night, and food popped up around them — eggs (scrambled, poached, hard boiled), bacon, sausages, toast, marmalades, clotted cream, butter, beans, fresh apples, oranges, oatmeal, nuts, tea, pumpkin juice, water, and more — and they all heartily tucked in to the meal. Ten minutes into breakfast, Professor McGonagall strode into the Great Hall and stopped short at the sight of them.

“Good morning, Professor McGonagall,” said Roswitha as she approached, the others echoing her statement.

“Good morning,” said Professor McGonagall, as examined each of them. “My, polite, punctual — are there any other surprises I might expect from the lot of you?”

“We’ve elected Roswitha as our captain,” said Dean.

“Still not calling her that,” Sophie muttered.

Professor McGonagall shook her head, but Roswitha thought she saw a smile. “All the usual Black Charm in you, then, Miss. Very well, these are your course schedules — see that you do not lose them.” McGonagall passed them to Roswitha, said, “Good morning, students,” and strode on to the staff table.

“Good morning,” they replied.

The schedules were in alphabetical order, and therefore easy to pass out, though Roswitha didn’t know why anyone had bothered copying out ten of them — they were identical. Perhaps it would matter more when they began to take elective classes. She mentally shrugged at the thought.

“Potions first thing…” Ron groaned. His eyes flicked to the head table, but Professor McGonagall was reading the morning paper and not paying attention to him

“What’s wrong with potions?” Hermione asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I was sort of looking forward to it — a bit like chemistry isn’t it?”

Ron shrugged. “It’s not the potions that are the problem. It’s Snape — all my brothers say that he favors the Slytherins, even Percy — and Percy doesn’t exaggerate, so it must be true.”

Roswitha furrowed her brow. “So? I’m sure the teachers all have their favorites — it doesn’t mean we can’t do well and enjoy the class.”

Deadpan, Fay looked at her and said, “You only think that because you’re in love.”

Roswitha found a scone and hurled it at Fay before she even realized what she was doing. Fay caught, and the entire table laughed. They sobered when McGonagall _did_ look up from her paper and turned back to their meal. More students began to trickle in, but just as the majority of the school was sitting down to breakfast, the Gryffindor first years were getting up (even accounting for the five to seven minutes when they all began to stuff their pockets with food that would travel well for snacks later).

As a group, they traveled back to the dorm to get their cauldrons, scales, ingredients, and potions books. Thankfully, Herbology wasn’t until after lunch, so they didn’t need to take those texts with them as well.

“If it’s like chemistry, do you think we should tie our hair back?” Hermione asked.

Lavender wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, imagine getting your hair in a potion. Good thought, Hermione.”

They took an extra few minutes to put their hair up and then met the boys back down in the common room to go find their potions class. It turned out to be easier than expected, as the dungeons seemed smaller than expected, and there was only one classroom that had the necessary benches and fire apparati to be the potions classroom. Roswitha checked her watch and found it was a quarter to nine — they were all early. She patted one of the benches, as she walked past, mumbling, “Thanks for leading us straight here.”

A warmth flickered up spine, as it often did when she spoke to Menaçant with compliments and thanks. There was no doubt — Hogwarts was listening.

Roswitha took a seat at the front of the classroom as she was used to, and Neville took the seat next to her. Everyone filed in on the same side of the room, and placed their cauldrons on the top of the table. Stuck for something else to do for the next fifteen minutes, they began chatting about this and that. Roswitha took out her notebook and began rereading the notes she had taken from the textbook.

“You’ve taken notes already?” Neville asked.

“Just on the book,” said Roswitha with a shrug. “I haven’t actually tried to brew any potions.”

Neville frowned, slapping a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t even think to take notes on the book.”

Roswitha nudged his knee with hers. “I think you can relax — it is just the first day of classes, after all.”

“If I fail though, my gran won’t be pleased,” he said. Neville dropped his hand and his big, brown eyes looked up at her, a little wet and very sad. “She’s always saying about how I have to do my parents proud. But I’m just so terrible at, well, everything.”

Roswitha didn’t know what to say to that. She was an orphan, had never known her parents, and had never really heard them spoken of in any sort of earnest. Roswitha didn’t know what it was like to have someone extolling a standard over her. So, instead, she said, “Do you know what your name reminds me of?”

“That old prime minister?” Neville asked, his brow furrowed.

Roswitha shook her head. “No, Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick. They called him the Kingmaker — he was by far the most powerful man in England — even more powerful than the king at times.”

Neville’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? That’s who I remind you of?”

Roswitha nodded. “And I think you could be like him. You just have to believe you can be and then you can.”

Neville turned this over in his mind for a moment, before a small smile appeared on his lips. “Well, I suppose Richard is one of my middle names.”

“You see?” asked Roswitha. She nudged him once again with her knee. “You’re already more calm and more confident. You’ll do just fine, Kingmaker.”

Neville nudged her back. “Thanks, Witha.”

The chatter among the Gryffindors died as the Slytherins sashayed into the room.

“Good morning, Draco,” said Roswitha as she caught sight of her fair haired cousin. For once, no one echoed her.

Draco took a seat at the bench across the aisle from her, and, without any real heat, said, “You’re a traitor to your family.”

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “My, you’re feeling _dramatic_ this morning.”

Professor Snape — and Roswitha had to remind herself that he _was_ “Professor Snape” now not “Father” — entered after the last Slytherin, looking over the Gryffindors with a frown.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” said Roswitha, the other Gryffindors mostly in time with her, and the Slytherins just a beat after.

Professor Snape did not falter. It looked as if he glided up to the lectern at the front of the class and when he turned to face them, he said, “Good morning,” in the softest, silkiest voice. He did not need to speak up, for he had their full attention and the room carried his voice ever so well. “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making. You will not need your wands for this class, and, as your older peers have many times demonstrated that they cannot be trusted to have them out in class, you will keep them away.” His eyes fell on Roswitha. “I feel compelled to note, before we begin class, that while I appreciate punctuality, the potions lab can be dangerous, as you never know what may be brewing here. As such, if you arrive to class early, and I or a trusted upper year is not present, wait in the hall. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Professor Snape,” said the class as one.

“Good.” He looked down to his lectern and began to call roll. Roswitha came first again, and did not miss Professor Snape’ black eyes meeting her own. He looked away back to his roll sheet, but when he was finished, Snape turned back to her. “Miss Black — what is the difference between aconite and monkshood?”

Roswitha hummed and looked down at her work bench — aconite, monkshood, aconite, monkshood — she knew she had read about them both and they were somewhere in her notes. But Roswitha thought that Professor Snape wouldn’t appreciate her flipping through the pages of her notebook, and her thoughts were so close to the answer — they both were stalky plants, both had purple flowers, both, both, both… “Are they the same plant, sir?” she asked after a moment.

Snape arched an eyebrow. “Are you asking me or telling me, Miss Black?”

“Asking, professor.”

Someone on the Slytherin half of the classroom gasped.Or maybe multiple someones — Roswitha couldn’t see since she was looking Professor Snape in the eye. Professor Snape seemed a little blank as he said, “You are correct, Miss Black. You may have a point for Gryffindor if you can tell me a third common name for the same plant.”

Aconite, monkshood, used for protection… particularly against werewolves! “Wolfsbane, Professor.” Roswitha made sure to keep her voice clear and level.

“Correct,” said Professor Snape. He cast his gaze out wider, to the rest of the class.

Professor Snape began to ask other questions — where did you find a bezoar? What did the bezoar do? What was the main ingredient in a calming draught? What sort of potion would you get when you added wormwood to asphodel?

Neville raised his hand for the last question before he had a look around and saw he was the only volunteer. Before Neville could put his hand down, Professor Snape called out, "Yes, Mr. Longbottom?"

"It would be a sleeping potion, sir," said Neville, looking down at the bench.

"Louder, Mr. Longbottom," Snape commanded, titters from the Slytherin side accompanying him.

"A sleeping potion, sir," said Neville, raising his voice a little too loud.

If Professor Snape was bothered by the volume, he didn't show it. "Interesting — what led you to that conclusion?"

"Er, well, wormwood and asphodel are very different plants and you use them for different ailments," said Neville, still studying the stone work of the bench. "The only thing they have in common is side effects regarding sleep."

Snape studied Neville thoroughly, before saying, "A point to Gryffindor for a reasonable induction. There is another point to anyone who can name the specific potion."

The class staid silent and no one raised their hands.

"No?" Professor Snape asked. "Very well — the potion in question would be the Draught of the Living Death. While not something you would take for an average sleepless night, it does send the drinker into a deep sleep that can go on for months — years if brewed properly. Let us try for something else."

Professor Snape continued to ask questions until everyone in class had had the change to answer. He awarded a few points here and there if someone answered a difficult question, but did not seem to limit points awarded to Slytherin house. Roswitha privately wondered if Percy Weasley was actually given to exaggeration.

With questions asked and answered, Professor Snape taped the blackboard with his finger and a recipe appeared for their view. "When you have thoroughly read these instructions, you can clear away your benches and begin brewing. You may work in the pairs you have assigned yourself for the day — on later potions _I_ will assign you a partner or you may have to work alone. The potion should take no more than a half hour to brew from start to finish, and there is an hour left in class. Use your time wisely."

Roswitha read the recipe, then turned to a fresh page in her potions notebook and began to take it down — writing helped her remember things and keep to the order which ought to be kept.

Neville followed her lead and began to write down the potion recipe in his own notebook, taking a little longer as he wrote with a quill and had to redip his nib in the inkwell with some frequency. While she waited on him, Roswitha reread the recipe, even muttering to herself. When he finished, Neville turned to her, looking rather serious. "What first, Captain?" he asked.

Roswitha wrinkled her nose at the nickname, but that Neville trusted her authority made her heart feel light. Given that it was easier to cook or brew anything to have everything prepared, she figured it would be best to start there. "Let's prepare the ingredients. Do you want the first half or the second?"

"First, please," said Neville.

And with that, they set to work. When they did, Roswitha found that the other Gryffindors were following their lead — Dean caught her eye and saluted. Roswitha only shook her head and got back to work. Between she and Neville, they had prepared all of their ingredients in about fifteen minutes. Roswitha checked the time and found they still had forty-five minutes to brew. She caught sight of Draco also checking his watch and nodded as he got to work with the blonde girl next to him. That gave her the presence of mind to look at the Slytherins, and there Roswitha found a nearly identical picture to what was happening with the Gryffindors. She tucked the thought stirring in her mind away for later review — for now, Roswitha and Neville began to brew their potion.

The potion was not over complicated — the hardest part was remembering to take the cauldron off the fire before adding the porcupine quills. But Roswitha saw a subtle beauty to it — the basic potion was teaching them to add ingredients at a precise time, to stir in certain patterns, and, most of all, patience. In the end, their potion came out as the board said it should, and Roswitha and Neville bottled up two phials (one with each of their names) to bring to Professor Snape. Everyone else finished at the same time, so Neville volunteered to clean up their space if Roswitha volunteered to turn them in.

As she handed in her and Neville's potion, Professor Snape said nothing, only raised an eyebrow, and placed the two phials down in a phial holder. "That will be all, Miss Black," he said.

Roswitha nodded and returned to Neville. He had put away all of her supplies into their box, but there remained the matter of the potion in the cauldron. "I looked around for somewhere to dump it," Neville whispered, "but I couldn't find anywhere that seemed right, and I didn't want to guess."

The line had cleared away from Professor Snape's desk, so she returned. When he looked up at her, Roswitha asked, "Sir, what would you like us to do with the rest of our potion?"

Professor Snape raised his wand, and Roswitha heard Neville go, "Oh!" as well as a few other gasps of acknowledgement. When she turned to look, Neville tilted the cauldron toward her so Roswitha could see the rest of their potion had vanished.

"You will all return at a later time to scrub them by hand," said Professor Snape, tucking his wand away. "Too much magic applied directly can damage the metal of the cauldron. If your cauldron is labeled with your name, you may leave it here and store it with all of the others. If not, you will take it back to your dorm room and return with it later to scrub it out during laboratory times on. No one will take care of your cauldron but you. Now, you have ten minutes remaining of class — not nearly enough time to do a proper job, so you will all return at a later date. Class — yes Miss Black?”

“Since we have extra time can we stay to scrub them now, if we want?” Roswitha asked.

Professor Snape’s eye twitched, as if he was trying not to roll her eyes. “So long as you vacate in time for the next class, yes, you may stay to scrub it out now.”

“Why would we do that?” Neville asked as he went with Roswitha to the cauldron cupboard.

Roswitha had been guessing, but there was a slop sink within where she could get water and a wire scrub brush. “Because,” she said, turning to all those who had followed her. “It is _much_ harder to scrub out potions when they’ve dried.” She scrunched her nose thinking of all the caldrons her Father had had her scrub out over the years when she had left them to dry. “Most of the time anyway. This will be easier, trust me.” Roswitha filled her cauldron half way with hot water before moving out of the way so the others could do the same everyone who was left behind, even Draco, staid to scrub their cauldrons out.


	7. The Quest

When they were done scrubbing, thankfully before the next class began to meander in, Roswitha and the others shuffled from the potions’ classroom. Draco caught on the sleeve of her robe, even as the other Slytherins began to file off toward another hall in the dungeons. 

“Have you written your parents yet?” he asked her. 

Roswitha shook her head “No, but thanks for the reminder, I’ll be sure to make time today.” 

Draco nodded and pursed his lips, still stuck in place instead of following his housemates. 

Roswitha had to keep from giggling. “Was there something you wanted?” 

“Well, it’s just, first years can check out the school brooms,” said Draco, shrugging. “Did you want to go and have a fly? I’m guessing you don’t have class again until after lunch either.” 

“No, I don’t,” said Roswitha. Then she looked down at herself — her uniform was mostly well kept if dotted with a few spots of water. It would serve fine for herbology, but perhaps she should let it dry first. Not to mention she still had her cauldron. “Let me put my cauldron away, and I’ll meet you in the Great Hall in fifteen minutes?”

Draco nodded. “See you then,” he said at last, turning back to the corridor where his housemates had gone. 

Roswitha turned back to her own house, who were waiting patiently on the spiral stairs, and raced to join them. 

"How on earth are you friends with a Malfoy?" Ron muttered when Draco was out of earshot.

"We're cousins," said Roswitha, with a shrug.

"I'm not exactly friends with my brothers, though," said Ron.

"I'm friends with my sister," said Parvati from behind Ron. "And just because he's in a different house, doesn't make him bad, Ron."

Ron shook his head as they came out into the entry hall. "It's not about him being a Slytherin, actually. The Malfoys and the Weasleys don't like each other — haven't since the conquest."

"What conquest?" Hermione asked.

"You know — William the Conqueror."

Hermione stopped at the top of the stairs, blinking up at Ron. "As in, the Norman Conquest of 1066?"

Ron nodded. "That's the one. The Malfoys came over with the Normans, but the Weasleys were already here, so we were on opposite sides of the battle."

"Mate, your families are fighting about something that happened almost a thousand years ago?" Dean asked, the same wide eyed look on his face as Hermione.

"We're not fighting," Ron protested. "We just don't like each other."

Roswitha fought down a round of laughter, because as far as she could tell, Ron was serious. "D'you think you could maybe judge Draco by his own character and not by his family name?"

Ron frowned, but after a moment, he nodded. "I suppose. If he's a pill, can I deck him?"

"I would prefer that you didn't," said Roswitha, as their group continued on toward the stairs that led up to the common room. "And if you promise to hold yourself back, I'll even teach you some boxing."

Ron went silent with consideration again. "Deal," he said after a moment, holding out his hand. Roswitha shook on it.

The ten of them made their way back to the common room, and from there split up. Hermione wanted to revise for Herbology in case they had a quiz like in potions and Neville offered to help her, and Seamus and Sophie joined them. Fay wasn't used to being up as early as they had gotten and so went to go take a short nap. Ron convinced Parvati to play him at chess, and Roswitha changed into clothes she wouldn't mind getting dirty, and grabbed her satchel, stuffing her diary in out of habit, before heading back to the entrance hall to meet Draco. He had similarly changed from his school robes and was waiting for her.

“_There_ you are,” said Draco, taking her hand to pull her out the door.

“Oh yes, you must have been waiting for up to five minutes,” said Roswitha, pulling him right back.

They ran out onto the open green of the Hogwarts lawn that sprawled from the castle to the rocky shores of the lake. Silence between them lasted a whole minute before Draco could no longer contain himself, “I can’t _believe_ you were sorted into Gryffindor.” 

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “Oh Draco! Why does it matter, really?”

“Because everyone in the family has been in Slytherin — even the people who have been disowned. And don’t bring up Cousin Sirius — he’s in prison and so not someone you should aspire to emulate.” 

Roswitha blinked at that. “Who said that, your mother or your father?”

Draco flushed. “Father — I asked about him it, and he said Sirius wasn’t smart enough to stay out of prison.”

“Draco, he killed thirteen people directly,” said Roswitha. “Conspired to murder at least three others that we know about — he _deserves_ to be in prison. If he weren’t, I do a whole lot more than disown him.” Roswitha must have scowled something fierce, because Draco startled at her admission. His expression pulled her back from anger, anger she didn’t even realize she had been holding. “Hey, I’ll race you to the broom shed,” she said and took off before Draco could protest.

Draco yelled after her, but was soon running right by her side letting out a whoop when he caught up to her. 

The outing turned out to be in vain. When they arrived at the broom shed, they found Madam Hooch repairing bristles on one of the school brooms. She tutted at them when they asked if they could use the brooms for flying. “While it is true that school brooms are available for use by any student, I do not allow first year students to use them until I’ve seen what they can do in flying lessons.”

“But those don’t start until next week,” said Draco in a whinge. 

Madam Hooch only snorted. “So they don’t, Mr. Malfoy! You still are not allowed to use a broom. Now, run along both of you. I’m sure you have a class or something else to attend.” 

She was wrong, as Roswitha checked her watch and found they still had an hour until lunch, but she pulled Draco away before he could lose points for insulting a teacher (or worse). 

“It’s ridiculous!” said Draco when they were out of earshot, shoving his hands into his trousers. “I’ve been flying on a broom since I was five.” 

Roswitha hummed at his statement before she said, “Say, Draco, how old is Malfoy Manor?” 

“What? Oh, the exterior building is about three hundred years old, I think. But before that it was a castle dating back to the conquest. Why?”

Roswitha licked her lips. “Well, Hogwarts is about that age — and I think the Black House is too. And well. I can sort of… talk to Menaçant.”

Draco stopped in his tracks. “Menaçant?”

“Oh,” said Roswitha, stopping as well. “It’s the original name for the House of Black.” 

“Oh, go on.”

“Right, well, it’s not like we’re talking. Menaçant understands me, and we repaired the lack of magic over the past few years together. There aren’t really… words, from the building, though, it gives me feelings? Like a warm rush of air if it was please.”

Draco frowned deeply as she spoke. “So?”

“So, has the manor every done something like that to you?”

“The Manor _provides_ for me, of course. I’m a Malfoy.” His frown didn’t let up. “But I’m not the master of the house yet, so no, not really. It did stick my feet to the floor when I tried to lean out the window once, though.” 

Roswitha nibbled her lip as she considered what he said. “So, if I were able to talk to Malfoy Manor or Hogwarts like I talk to Menaçant, that would be weird, right?”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “The Manor, probably. But, Hogwarts is different. It’s a school — there have been children here for a thousand years or so. Plus, there were four people who founded it and built the castle. It’s not like Black House where the Blacks built that and only the Blacks and it’s only ever been owned by the Blacks. It was created by four people, and it’s been a place for children ever since. Wait —” Draco stopped in his tracks. “Did _Hogwarts talk to you?_” 

“Yes,” said Roswitha, her cheeks flushing. 

Draco grabbed her hands, eyes wide. “What did it say? Did it tell you that you didn’t belong in Gryffindor and you should come to Slytherin, post haste?”

“No!” Roswitha rolled her eyes. “It didn’t get a chance to tell me what it wanted to say — I got interrupted by a ghost, Sir Nicholas. But it has something it needs done or wants to say, and I’m the only one it can communicate with.”

“Wow.” If possible, Draco’s eyes went wider. “You’ll let me help, right? A quest set by Hogwarts itself…”

“I mean…” Roswitha shrugged. “Hogwarts made it seem like whatever it was would be very dangerous. I think I’ll probably just tell a teacher when we get to the bottom of it.” 

“But Ros!” Draco whinged. “A quest.”

Roswitha checked her watch. “Look, we’ve still got forty-five minutes before lunch. If you want a quest, let’s go on one.” 

“You can’t just go on a quest!” Draco stopped a foot. “It has to be given you!”

“Draco, haven’t you ever played pretend before?” Roswitha asked, shaking her head. “It won’t be a _real_ quest, but a sort of practice one. We can make believe we’re knights of the round table and we’re practicing our knightly skills.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “What sort of make believe quest would we do?” 

Roswitha hadn’t thought that far in advance. “Like — since Hogwarts wants me to do something, maybe we could collect four symbols — one that represents each of the houses.”

“So, green for Slytherin, yellow for Hufflepuff, blue for Ravenclaw, and red for Gryffindor?” asked Draco.

“Well, Merlin wasn’t specific when he gave us the quest —”

“You can’t say Merlin gave us the quest—”

“Hush, Draco it’s pretend. The shield colors would be a good start though.”

They began to look around on the lawn for the four colors. Draco found a spot of clovers that he plucked up by their roots and brought along. Roswitha found some heather, sort of purple, but more red to her eye that she pulled up several stalks of and brought along with them. After Draco spied some buttercups near the edge of the forest, they needed something blue to complete their quest. Roswitha looked and looked, and at last, she thought she saw some blue looking flowers in the garden surrounding a stone and wood house. 

“C’mon,” she said to Draco as she raced toward the door. 

“It might be dangerous!” said Draco as he followed. 

“It wouldn’t be a quest without a little danger!” Still, Roswitha had read Hansel and Gretel, just as anyone had. Instead of taking without asking, she knocked on the door. To her surprise, Hagrid opened it. “Good morning!”

“Good mornin’,” he replied with a jolly smile. “And how may I help ye?”

“I was wondering if we might have some bluebells from your garden?” Roswitha asked. She held up the heather, and looked over her shoulder to where Draco had the clovers and buttercups. “We need something blue to go with.”

“A’course,” said Hagrid. “I have some pansies as well, if ye’d prefer.”

“Thank you very much, Hagrid,” said Roswitha. 

“Yes, thank you,” said Draco from behind her. “Ros, the pansies are a little bluer than the bluebells.”

The bluebells, despite their name, were more purple than perhaps they wanted. Roswitha nodded at his choice, and plucked one out of the garden. 

Hagrid, still watching them from the doorway, said, “Go on, take more than one. It’ll be a strange crown when you’re done, I think, or bouquet, whichever ye do with it. But the colors’ll go nice together.”

“They’re Hogwarts colors,” said Roswitha. Pansies plucked up from the earth, Roswitha joined hands with Draco. She giggled and looked down at their hands. “I don’t think it worked.” 

Draco nodded, over-serious. “We’ll just have to try again, with something else.”

Hagrid looked slightly confused. “Well, p’rhaps best to try again on a full stomach. Lunch’ll be starting soon — why don’t the two of you run along and get something to eat.” 

“We’ll do,” said Roswitha, looking up at Hagrid with a smile. “Thank you, again. Come on, Draco.” 

When they arrived back at the entry hall, they still had time before lunch started. Draco decided to go back to his dorm and clean up, passing off his flowers to Roswitha as he did. Roswitha found a seat at the Gryffindor table and pulled out her diary, taking the time to write out an entry, about the strange night time summons and about her morning with Draco, before she began drafting a letter to her Pappa. 

“Why are there flowers?” Ron asked, taking a seat next to her. 

“Draco and I went pretend questing,” said Roswitha, with a shrug. She blew on her diary page to make sure the ink was dry before she closed it and put it in her bag. “Hagrid thought we were making flower crowns, though.”

“Did you want to?” Ron asked. 

“I don’t know how,” said Roswitha.

“It’s dead simple,” said Ron, his fingers already working the heather stalks into a ring. “I make about a million daisy chains and garlands for Ginny in the summer.”

Roswitha grinned as she watched Ron work. “That’s wonderful! Thank you, Ron.” She took up the shorter buttercups and began to weave them around the thicker heather stalk. Ron did the same with the clover and then they both tackled the pansies. 

When the crown was finished after a few minutes of shared work, Ron took it in hand and placed it on her head. “Long live Queen Ros,” he said solemnly. 

The twins took that moment to appear behind them and said, rather loudly than Roswitha would have liked, “Long may she reign! Long live Queen Roswitha.” 

“Fred! George!” Ron’s ears were turning red. “Knock it off, it was just a joke.” 

“But we are her knights!” said Fred, puffing up his chest.

George nodded emphatically. “That means Roswitha’s a queen there’s no two ways about it.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Roswitha, feeling her own cheeks flush. “It means I’m the _king_.” 

Fred and George both gave low bows. “My liege!” They pronounced together.

“Move it along you two,” said an upper year girl, pushing Fred and George aside. She turned to Roswitha and smiled, her teeth bright against her dark skin. “Nice crown.” 

“Thanks!” said Roswitha.

The other girls in her year thought so as well and were dying to know where she had gotten it (well, Lavender was dying to know, the others were mildly interested). Roswitha explained, and after lunch, they decided to go and pick their own to make more. 

“Can we come along?” Susan asked, leaning over from the Hufflepuff table. 

“Of course,” said Roswitha with a smile. “No one owns the heather of Scotland after all.” 

The simple agreement was how the second afternoon class for Herbology all tumbled into the greenhouse wearing flower garlands, much to Professor Sprout’s delight. 

The first few days of classes passed in a blur. Each morning, Roswitha would get up and she and Dean would go for a run. When they returned to the Tower, Roswitha, Parvati and Fay (sometimes joined by the others) would do a set of yoga poses together before bathing and getting dressed for the day. Then they would go to breakfast and then one or two classes that they had that day. In between classes, they would work on homework, or play games, or sometimes just read. Roswitha found it swiftly becoming a nighttime tradition that she would read aloud to the group when Ron asked her just how a castle could _move_. (She had only been reading _Howl’s Moving Castle _to get inspiration for how to talk to Hogwarts, it hadn’t spoken to her since the first night). 

Classes themselves were not turning out to be really that difficult. Or maybe they would have been, but they only had classes once a week, which meant they had class once or twice per day.

Roswitha almost managed to turn a matchstick into a needle during Transfiguration, and as it was the only class they had on Tuesdays, she kept at it after class and finally figured it out later that night. Defense Against the Dark Arts came Wednesday, with Professor Quarrel lecturing them for the whole class, before assigning reading and spell casting practice for homework. Thursday saw them in Charms lessons, and Roswitha’s first etiquette class after supper.

Neville still wanted to come with her, so they departed the group together. The others simply waved them off, as no one was particularly interested in an etiquette lesson (not even Hermione who had read the blue book cover to cover — instead she buried herself in the transfiguration book). There were a few upper year Gryffindors who went and so they walked with Neville and Roswitha to a classroom on the second floor which had been transformed into a tea room which had been painted the same robin’s egg blue as the blasted book, and accented with a royal blue color all around. 

The upper year Gryffindors split off from them as soon as they arrived, but Roswitha spied Pansy Parkinson in the corner with a group of other girls. “C’mon,” she said to Neville, who nodded and followed after.

Pansy, upon spotting Roswitha, curtsied to her, the other two girls doing so just a beat behind her. "Good evening, Miss Black, Mr. Longbottom."

Roswitha curtsied and Neville made an exaggerated, awkward bow. "Good evening, Miss Parkinson. I don't believe I am acquainted with your companions, if you would be so kind to introduce us?"

The three Slytherin girls burst into giggles, and Roswitha giggled too.

"I'm Daphne," said one girl. She was blonde, like Pansy, but her hair was more the color of wheat that Pansy's ash blonde.

"And I'm Millicent," said the other girl. She had dark brown hair and brown eyes almost like amber.

"Pleased to meet you," said Roswitha. "I didn't know how formal we were being, with the curtsies and all. This is Neville, and I'm Roswitha."

"How d'you do?" said Neville, his voice so low he nearly murmured.

"Charmed," said Daphne, a grin still on his face. "You have to let us borrow you this evening, Neville, or you'll never stop being so shy."

As if to make Daphne's point, Neville flushed bright red. "Borrow me?" he asked with a slight squeak.

Before any of the others could explain, a group of girls swept dramatically into the classroom, their robes billowing behind them. Professor Snape entered after them, his robes also quite billowy.

"Welcome," said a girl in a dove gray dress. "As it is the first night of the year and we have new students with us, we will start off with a beginner’s lesson. Pair off and take a tea tray from the sideboard — each member of each pair will then take turns serving and making conversation with one another. Each time you hear the bell chime," a girl next to her rang a small bell, "begin a new topic of conversation."

People made their way to the long side table lined with tea trays. There was no pushing and shoving, this society was much too polite for those sorts of antics, but Roswitha still got the idea that everyone was rushing to get a particular tray or table. When at last she got a tray (with a jade green tea pot to her delight), everyone had paired off and sat down at a table (Neville looked particularly nervous as Daphne poured him a cup of tea). The girl in the gray dress tapped her shoulder and pointed over to where Professor Snape sat marking papers. "That means you're with the Professor, firstie."

Roswitha nodded and approached his table. Professor Snape didn't look up from his papers, and so Roswitha cleared her throat before asking, "May I sit down Professor?"

"You may," said Snape, still not looking up from his papers.

Roswitha sat and poured out two fresh cups of tea. She paused before preparing his cup, asking, “Do you take your tea the same way at Hogwarts? Black with honey?”

Professor Snape looked up at her, his eyes focused and his mouth forming an over exaggerated grimace. “That depends, are you deigning to speak with me now?”

Roswitha pouted. “Well, it’s only been a few days — and you said you wanted me to call you professor in class.” 

Father snorted sitting back in his chair. “Yes, well, the House elves never see fit to provide honey for these exercises, so two sugars shall suffice, child.”

Roswitha delicately placed two cubes of sugar into the hot tea, passing Father the cup on a saucers with an accompanying spoon. “I never quite understood your obsession with honey.”

“It is not an obsession,” said Father, stirring his tea. “Merely a preference, I have few of those as it is. And honey has more flavor than merely sweet.”

“Hmm,” said Roswitha sipping her own tea after she had stirred in the sugar and cream. “I suppose I never thought of honey as having a flavor.” 

“Honey takes on the flavor of the flowers that the bees harvest from,” said Father, nodding to her. “The honey here will taste different from the honey your elves make at home as the bees collect from different flowers. Sample both carefully and you will taste the difference. And you have gone too long without offering something to eat, child.”

Roswitha wanted to object, but heard the bell chime. She served him with a bite sized chocolate tart and a light cake. For herself, Roswitha took a treacle tart and a savory biscuit topped with soft cheese and smoked salmon, longing to bite into the salmon topped biscuit, but instead saying, “I enjoyed your lesson very much, sir.”

“Flatterer,” said Father, setting aside his own plate of treats (though his chocolate tart did have a bite missing from it).

“It’s not flattery to say that I enjoyed your lesson,” Roswitha retorted, rebelliously biting into the salmon biscuit. The salmon had been salted and smoked just the way she liked it, meshing well with the soft cheese.

“How on earth you eat so much fish,” Father remarked as he took a draught of tea. “The texture alone would disagree with most children you age.”

Roswitha swallowed, saying, “No, I like how slimy it is.”

“One does not say ‘slimy’ in polite company, child,” Father chided. 

“Er,” Roswitha flushed a little. “Well, then the texture is one thing I enjoy about fish. Does that mean you didn’t like fish when you were younger?” 

Father smirked and took a long drink of tea. “An interesting deflection,” he said. “But to answer your question, no, I did not. Much of what I ate as a child before coming here was overcooked no matter if it were an animal, vegetable, or mineral. Food was not really a pleasure until I became an adult.” 

The bell chimed. 

Father said nothing, rather pointedly taking a bite of his tart and a sip of his tea.

“I wrote Pappa on Monday,” said Roswitha for want of anything else to say. “To tell him about my first day and about being sorted.”

“Was that all you had to say?” Father asked, taking up his plate of food. 

“Well, I talked a little more about what we’ve discussed before,” said Roswitha, shrugging a little. “About how people will think I’m like Sirius — Professor McGonagall even said I had the Black charm on Monday morning.” She paused before asking, “How do you tell?”

“How do you tell what, child?” Father asked, sitting back, at ease.

“How do you tell if you’re becoming, I dunno, evil?” said Roswitha, setting down her empty teacup. 

Father hummed for a moment in thought. “That you worry about becoming evil is something of an indicator that you are not,” he said. “But though many people think your uncle’s turn was out of nowhere, he had always been a bully, and he associated himself with other bullies too. A small thing, perhaps, but something which could certainly escalate.” 

“You knew Uncles Sirius,” said Roswitha, staring down at her hands. “Do you think I’m like him at all?”

“Perhaps a little,” Father admitted after a moment. “Professor McGonagall was right to say that you have the Black charm, for you most certainly do. But you are also very different — you are too kind and too concerned with the state of others around you, ones many people do not turn an eye too at all, you care about. Your uncle would not have done such a thing, nor your father, nor I for that matter.” Father gave a little smile at her. “Continue as you have gone, child, and you need not worry about becoming your uncle.”

Roswitha didn’t know why, but the speech made her tear up a little. She accepted the handkerchief her father offered out and dried her eyes and blew her nose, as softly and discreetly as she could. 

From over her shoulder, Roswitha heard, “Professor, did you break a first year?” Roswitha turned and found the seventh year girl who led the group.

“I most assuredly did not, Miss Kent,” said professor Snape, sitting as casually as ever. “You may return to your post, Miss Kent. I believe there is still time in our session, and Miss Black will need a moment to compose herself.” 

Kent looked to Roswitha, who, still sniffling, nodded. Kent signed, but returned to her post with the other seventh years next to the bell.

Father turned back to their conversation. “Are you alright, Roswitha?” he asked.

“Yes, Father, thank you,” she said, folding up the handkerchief and passing it back to him. 

The bell chimed again, just as Father pocketed his handkerchief and he said, “I am surprised more of your pride did not accompany you.” He held out a hand for her cup so that he might pour another round of tea.

“My what?” Roswitha asked, handing over her cup.

“A group of lions,” said Father, as he not only poured out a cup of tea but served her another biscuit topped with salmon, “is called a pride. I have not seen you without the nine other Gryffindors in your year since you arrived here. Eat your food.”

Roswitha took a bite of the new biscuit, chewed and swallowed, chasing it with some tea. “Hermione thought it might be interesting, but she wanted to read a book tonight. The others didn’t really want to come — they thought etiquette class might be, well, sort of boring.” 

"And Mr. Longbottom?" Father asked.

Roswitha licked her lips. "Mr. Longbottom's reasons were his own," she said at last. After all, she didn't know how serious of a threat his gran was. She drank a large gulp of tea (thankfully cool enough that it did not burn her mouth), and took a bite of her treacle tart.

The etiquette lasted another half hour, during which Roswitha and Father traded topics back and forth, discussing this and that, not really keeping a pattern to their conversation. When she and Neville met up to walk back to the Gryffindor dorm, trailing behind the other years, he took a long look at her. "Have you been crying?" he asked. "Did Professor Snape make you cry?" Neville took her by the hand.

Roswitha squeezed his hand gently and kept walking. "I made myself cry. Professor Snape was just telling me about my Uncle — they went to school together."

"Oh." Neville face dropped and he whispered, "I wish I had someone to tell me about my parents."

"Your gran doesn't talk about them?" Roswitha asked.

"Just about how I need to do better and make them proud," said Neville.

Roswitha didn't know much about Madam Longbottom, but she had made up her mind pretty firmly that she did not like her at all. She squeezed Neville's hand again. "I think your parents would be pretty proud of you, Kingmaker."

Neville flushed. "You're just saying that."

"I'm not," said Roswitha, shaking her head. "Look at you, you're a Gryffindor, you've survived your first week at Hogwarts and a nighttime tea with Daphne Greengrass."

Neville giggled. "She's not so bad." He squeezed her hand. "Thanks, Witha."

They walked back to the common room hand in hand and didn't even break apart when the seventh years made woo-woo noises at them. Roswitha didn't really care about that — at present, all she really cared about was curling up in a warm tub rereading _Howl's Moving Castle _and then having a nice long sleep.

Naturally, she woke again at three in the morning.

No candle hovered in the doorway this time, but Roswitha still had the same feeling she had had the first night at Hogwarts. So, she pulled on a dressing gown and a pair of slippers and descended into the common room. Sir Nicholas waited for her at the bottom of the stairs.

"Back again, Miss Black?" Sir Nicholas asked with a smile.

"Yes, Sir Nicholas," said Roswitha, returning his smile. "Don't mind me — it seems that Hogwarts and I need to have a little chat."

Roswitha felt a rumble in her chest that indicated it would not be so little or even something as mild as a chat. So, she stoked up the fireplace, and took a seat on the hearth (borrowing a cushion from a nearby seat to ease what was sure to be a sore bottom otherwise).

Hogwarts was quiet at first — so quiet that Roswitha nearly nodded off again as she meditated in wait for it to speak.

_There is a thing_, said Hogwarts, startling Roswitha to nearly full wakefulness.

_A thing_? asked Roswitha in reply.

_A powerful thing_, said Hogwarts. _It is both younger and older than me, and I don't know how. I don't like it. It is dangerous. A dangerous thing should not be here with the students._

_Do you know what it is? _Roswitha asked.

_No. _A pause_. It is small. A pebble compared to my size_. _A mountain compared to my magic._ _I don't want it here. Tell the teachers to take it away_.

_I can try_, said Roswitha. _I do not know that they will listen._

_Try_, said Hogwarts. _You are the only one who can hear me. Try._

_I will try,_ Roswitha agreed.

The fire flared a little in the fireplace and though Roswitha felt warm and comfortable, she could feel somehow that Hogwarts was no longer in communication with her. Sir Nicholas was not in the common room when she opened her eyes, and the clock on the wall showed that it was not much passed three-thirty. Roswitha dusted some ashes off of herself and the cushion she had used, put the cushion back in place, and ascended the stairs to her dorm.

Whatever sleep she missed, she made up the next day in the History of Magic, for Professor Binns gave off a comfortable drone that made it easy to take a snooze.

Roswitha pushed the assignment Hogwarts had given her about the object somewhere within the castle to her back burner without really meaning to. 

She meant to tell Draco about it as soon as she could, as he was especially interested in going on a quest, and she had promised to tell him more. But, whenever she saw Draco she seemed unable to get to him. Over the weekend when she and her fellow Gryffindors went to play knights on the Hogwarts Lawn (Hermione volunteered to represent the Grail since she wanted to read rather than pretend to ride around on horses) she spotted him playing around with some other Slytherins. When she called out to him, "Draco! Draco over here!" he must not have heard her for he didn't look up. 

On Monday's potions lesson, Professor Snape asked Draco to stay behind in class, and she could neither talk to him before nor after defense class as he danced away pretending he couldn't hear her call his name. Roswitha figured she would give it one more chance to tell him during their flying lessons and then she was writing her cousin an owl. Unfortunately, Draco did something completely rude at that time.

All of Gryffindor, except Ron and Seamus, had been nervous for the flying lesson as it would be their first time on a broom. It ended up being fine, as most people's nervousness lead them to under perform at the lesson. Neville, however, seemed to put too much magic behind his attempt at floating on the broom and launched himself into the sky. Despite Madam Hooch shouting at him to come back down (or maybe _because_ she had) Neville only lost further control, going higher and higher until she broom brought him crashing back down.

Roswitha was not close to where Neville crashed, but she still heard him cry out in pain. They all raced to where Neville landed, broom cracked underneath him.

Madam Hooch made them all stand back as she helped Neville to his feet. Neville was biting his lip with pain, but seemed to be doing his very best not to cry. Madam Hooch tsk'd as she examined the arm Neville landed on. "Broken, I'm afraid — though you are quite lucky, young man, that it wasn't more of your bones. Come along, lad, I'll take you to the hospital wing. The rest of you — no flying until I return, or you'll be expelled faster than you can say quidditch."

When Neville was out of earshot, Roswitha turned to find Draco snickering. "What an oaf," said Draco.

Ron moved forward to defend Neville, and likely honor his promise to deck Draco, but Roswitha held him back. "Don't be rude," she said with a frown. "That was dangerous — Neville could have died."

Draco only rolled his eyes. "If he'd ever been on a broom before he would have been fine." He reached down and plucked something from the glass where Neville had lain. "Look! He can't even mind his pockets much less a broom!" In his hand, Draco held a remberall that Neville's Gran had sent him.

Roswitha reached out to take it back, but Draco held it away from her. "Draco! That isn't yours; give it back!"

"I don't think I will," said Draco, frowning at her. "You care more about the other Gryffindors than you do your own kin."

"That isn't true!" said Roswitha, furrowing her brow. "I've been trying to talk to you all week, but you're always running away from me." She reached out for the remembrall again, but Draco pulled away. "Is this how a Malfoy behaves? Like a common thief?"

Draco glared at her. "A _Malfoy_ helps better his fellow wizards. And I think I'll help Longbottom — it'll be good for him to have to locate this. I'll stick it somewhere hard to find. In a tree perhaps?" And with that, he mounted his broom and began to ascend through the air.

Ron went to mount his own broom, but Zabini held him back. "Easy Weasley, it's a family feud. Either Black does something or no one does."

"I vote no one," said Hermione, with a frown. "You'll only get in trouble, Ros."

"Maybe," said Roswitha with her own frown as she mounted the broom. "But some things are worth getting in trouble for."

If Roswitha didn't have a growing sense of anger, she would have paid more attention to how flying felt, how the air all around her seemed different when she was off the ground, even how she almost felt weightless. Instead, her anger directed her focus more sharply to Draco. "Why are you doing this?" Roswitha asked.

"Because you're always with the Gryffindors," said Draco, his eyes hard. "You never spend time with just me!" And with that, he threw the remembrall as hard as he could.

Roswitha turned the front of the broom toward the ball, urging the broom to go as fast as it could. Roswitha swore she felt it purr like a kitten as it obeyed. Her eyes followed the glass ball, which would surely shatter if it hit the ground, and pulled the broom down, following the arc of the ball, grabbing it maybe ten feet before it hit the ground. She pulled up hard, and the broom grunted from the effort but managed the maneuver. Roswitha came to rest in the air, panting with effort. Below her, she heard cheering, but she focused instead on patting the broom.

"ROSWITHA BLACK!"

Roswitha looked up to where Professor McGonagall was striding out onto the lawn. The cheering abruptly ceased, and Roswitha brought her broom down to the ground.

"Never, in all my time," Professor McGonagall said as she came closer. "With me, Miss Black, this instant."

Everyone looked as if they were about to protest, but Roswitha handed off the ball to Hermione. Then, she turned to Draco who had rejoined his Slytherin classmates. "Just so we are clear," she said firmly, "You and I are not talking until you apologize. To Neville. And you mean it."

Then Roswitha turned back to Professor McGonagall and followed the frowning professor back up to the castle.

Roswitha thought for sure they would go to Professor McGonagall's office where she would be read the riot act and given several detentions if not actually expelled as Madam Hooch had promised. Instead, they went to the charms classroom, where Professor McGonagall ducked in asking to borrow Wood.

Wood turned out to be the tall fifth year who had teased Percy Weasley for catching the dinner rolls her first night at Hogwarts.

"Mr. Wood, I have found you a seeker," said Professor McGonagall, her brogue thick, almost to where Roswitha couldn't tell what she was saying.

As it turned out, this was not a problem, for Wood replied in an equally thick accent, "A seeker, are you sure, Professor?"

"She call a ball from a fifty foot dive — Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it," Professor McGonagall declared, a rare smile on her lips.

Wood turned to Roswitha and looked her up and down assessing her. Roswitha flushed saying, "I'm a minimum weight if you were wondering."

Wood lit up. "Ye box?" he asked.

"Yes," said Roswitha, with a nod. "We don't have any facilities here, but my cousins gave me a punching bag I can shrink and take anywhere. So I've been doing the drills as best I can, but it's not the same."

"Hmm, well you have the right build for a seeker, and this was your first time on a broom?" Wood looked her up and down again. "Best to give you a trial — see if you perform consistently. And, I s'pose we ought to ask, do you want to be on the quidditch team?"

Both sets of eyes weighed on her heavily. "I've never played quidditch before," said Roswitha after a moment. "So, I suppose it couldn't hurt to try. But I'm allowed to quit if it goes wrong for me, aren't I?" 

“Of course you are allowed to quit, Miss Black,” said Professor McGonagall, sternly. “But I would ask that you give your fellow team members enough time before a game to find a replacement. The Quidditch Trophy has been in Professor Snape’s office for far too long.” 

Roswitha held out her hand to Wood. "Very well, then, I accept."

Wood looked at her with an odd smile, but took her hand and shook firmly. "I'll find you in the common room tonight and we'll compare schedules as to when we can meet for a trial. And, ah, perhaps keep mum about this if you can?"

Roswitha made a face. "I don't know if I'll be able to do that. The other members of the pride will want to know what happened."

McGonagall's lips twitched slightly. "'Twas Professor Snape who coined that term, was it not?"

Roswitha nodded. "And, well, a pride _is_ a group of lions."

Wood grinned. "Well, it's a group of something else as well. My mams would approve. Alright — I suppose rumors get around the castle quickly enough anyway. Go ahead and tell the others."

After that, McGonagall dismissed them both, Roswitha back to flying with a note for Madam Hooch and Wood back to charms class. Madam Hooch glared at her as she trotted back onto the field, but lessened a little when Roswitha handed her Professor McGonagall's note. "I don't know that we ought to reward disobedience."

Roswitha hummed. "Well, Madam, disobedience is not always the same as being wrong."

Madam Hooch rolled her eyes. "I don't deal with philosophers — especially eleven-year-old ones. Up in the air, Miss Black, it seems you already know well enough how."

Roswitha brushed off all attempts for the pride to talk to her until they were away from the Slytherins at dinner. True to her word, she had simply turned and walked away when Draco attempted to talk to her, the others having her back.

Ron and Sophie, the two big quidditch fans of their group were ecstatic. "You must be the youngest seeker in a century!" Ron declared.

"If not longer!" said Sophie, her eyes bright. "They almost never let first years play because that would mean they could have their own brooms. Have you got a broom, Ros?"

"No," said Roswitha, shaking her head. Normally, it would probably be something she would talk to Draco about, but as they were not speaking, she would have to make due on her own. "And, besides, Wood's just going to give me a trial, I might not even been good enough to make the team."

Sophie and Ron rolled their eyes at this declaration, something the rest of the group mimicked. "Sure, Ros," said Ron. "Okay you 'might' not be good enough to make the team."

Roswitha rolled her eyes right back. "Alright then, I'm going to go and visit Neville in the hospital wing before etiquette. Anyone else want to come?"

A fifth year warned them that Madam Pomfrey would not allow all nine of them in at once, and they had better stick to just two or three. They ignored his advice soundly and stuffed their pockets with things Neville liked before making their way to the hospital. Madam Pomfrey did indeed frown in their general direction as they entered, but said nothing about all of them being there at once. Neville, though, flushed with joy at the sight of them.

"She had to vanish one of my small bones and regrow it," he explained, as to why he was still there. "It was a bit too smashed. I should be done in an hour or so since it was a small one. Roswitha, would you tell the upper years where I am? It's okay to miss if I'm in the hospital wing, isn't it?"

Roswitha nodded. "I'll let them know."

Madam Pomfrey had let Neville had dinner, but no dessert, and so he welcomed their stolen sweets. Around that time, Madam Pomfrey decided that visiting hours were over.

"I wanted to go to the library tonight," said Hermione as they walked. "But I'll walk with you to your etiquette club if you want?"

"I'll go too," said Ron.

“But, Ron!” said Parvati. “We were going to play chess tonight.”

Ron only shrugged. “I’ve got my pieces if you’ve got yours. Come with.”

"I can go alone, you know," said Roswitha as the group split up on the staircases.

“No,” said Parvati with a slight shrug. “I’ve got my pieces, I can come with.” 

"Safety in numbers, Captain!" Dean called over to her. "Have a good club!"

Kent, the unofficial leader of the club, frowned when Roswitha reported Neville was in the hospital wing, but sighed and accepted the situation. Today they were working on bowing and purpose filled walks, so Roswitha felt confident that she could catch Neville up at a later time. Daphne pouted when she heard he was still out though.

"Draco was quite desolate at your punishment," Pansy reported as they curtsied to one another.

"Good," said Roswitha, curtsying again.

After an hour and a half of different bows and practicing walking (goodness, two skills Roswitha never thought she would need to possess), the group disbanded, and Roswitha found Ron, Hermione, and Parvati waiting outside of the classroom.

"Remind me to come to this next year," said Parvati, looking up from the chess board she and Ron had set up on the floor. "It actually looks pretty interesting. I'll drag Padma too. Remember where all of the pieces are, Ron?"

Ron narrowed his eyes at the board and then nodded. They each collected their pieces to their pockets before Ron folded up the board so he could do the same with it.

"It bothers me to no end that you have an eidetic memory," said Hermione with a frown, as she marked her book and stood up.

"A wot?" Ron asked as they began to walk.

"You can see things only once or twice and remember them," said Hermione. "Otherwise known as a photographic memory. I have to note things four or five times if I want to remember them and you just... don't."

Ron scowled a little. "I can't help that."

"I'm not saying you can, but —"

Hermione cut off. They had been on the staircase and just when they got to the middle, it moved. Rather than going straight up as it had before, and usually did, it now led to a smaller staircase landing that led to the third floor corridor on the right side.

Roswitha pressed a hand into the rail, "Go back please, we're not allowed in that corridor."

The castle only responded by moving the stairs up until they were all on the landing. before they could get back on the staircase to go down, the staircase moved again, connecting back to their normal route.

"Hey!" Ron cried.

A passing group of older students saw them — among whom were Percy Weasley and Wood. Percy let loose a word that normally a prefect probably would not use. "RON! I explicitly told you you —"

"I still don't want to die a painful death!" said Ron. "The staircase just pushed us up here!"

Percy grumbled, but Wood only grinned. "Wait there, we'll get McGonagall and she can help sort it all out," said Wood, as he began to jog up the steps toward McGonagall's office.

Roswitha was keen to do just as he said. Unfortunately, the castle was not keen to let them rest, and forced a feeling of dread onto Roswitha. "Let's just move to the top shall we?" she said. Parvati was closest, and so Roswitha took her by the hand and pulled her up the stairs. Ron and Hermione followed, confused, and as they did the landing pulled back into the wall. The four first years' eyes went wide and they all clamored up the stairs, the fifth years beneath them yelling as they did, and the stairs all but disappearing under their feet.

"Has the castle gone mad?!" Hermione cried when they were safe at the top.

Roswitha frowned. "I think this might be my fault. I —"

Before she could explain, they heard a yowl behind them. The four of them turned and found Mrs. Norris sitting back on her haunches, tail wagging back and forth, looking at them with her red eyes.

"And now this?" Parvati asked.

"No, this is a good thing!" said Hermione, with a nod. "It means Mr. Filch can find us and can get us out of here, and then when we explain what happened to Professor McGonagall we won't be in trouble. Here, kitty kitty." Hermione pulled from one of her robe pockets what looked like a small brown lump.

Mrs. Norris came forward and took the lump from Hermione's hand in her mouth, chewing it for a while before she swallowed and meowed loudly for another.

"You just carry around cat treats?" Ron asked.

Hermione flushed as she fed Mrs. Norris another. "I like cats. Mrs. Norris, will you take us to Mr. Filch please? We'd like to be caught now."

Mrs. Norris meowed and trotted off deeper into the corridor.

"Should we wait here or should we follow?" Roswitha asked.

"Stay there!" Percy Weasley called from down below them.

The castle disagreed, and the floor began to pull back pushing them further and further in. The backed up until they were well into the corridor and could no longer see Percy, though he continued to shout at them, and his voice echoed up the stair hall and all around them.

"Now what?" Parvati asked.

They looked around and Mrs. Norris was nowhere to be found. In fact, the only thing they could see along the corridor was a room that had a large door marked with "Keep Out."

"Any chance that that's what we're not supposed to go looking for?" Ron asked.

As if to provoke them, the door swung open on its hinges.

"Alright already!" Roswitha cried. "I'll go in, the rest of you stay here."

Parvati grabbed one of her hands, though. "Safety in numbers, Captain."

Hermione grabbed her other hand, and Ron grabbed Hermione's. The four of them approached the room and all they heard was a great snore. When they entered it was too dark for any of them to see — it took a few minutes, but their eyes began to adjust — such that Roswitha began to see the shape of a dog, and then another, and then another — and then she realized it was not three dogs, but one dog with three heads.

No one said anything.

For now the dog slept on, snuffling and snoring in its sleep.

"What are we doing here again?" Ron asked in a whisper.

Roswitha shushed him.

Roswitha's shushing him, or maybe Ron's whisper, reverberated in the room — and when came silence again, there was no dog snore to fill the air. Instead, the dog's eyes slowly begin to open.

Before any of them could scream or shout or even run away, Parvati opened her mouth and began to sing. The song was in a language Roswitha didn't recognize, but Parvati sang sweet and in tune, if a little quicker than perhaps she might have if they were not standing in front of a large, three headed dog. Roswitha watched as the dog's eyes began to droop and slowly it began to fall asleep again. It was not asleep entirely when someone grabbed Roswitha's shoulder and pulled her out of the room. The world blurred for a second, but then she was against the third floor corridor wall, Parvati, Ron, and Hermione by her side with a couple of upper year Gryffindors nearby and Percy Weasley standing front and center casting a dozen spells on the door they had gone through.

Wood patted Roswitha's head. "Well now, that was an adventure, wasn't it? Glad I came back when I heard Percy shrieking.”

"What on earth are they doing keeping a beast like that in a _school_?" Ron asked, his voice little more than a squeak.

Percy, his barrage of spells completed, came to where Ron was pressed against the wall and pulled his brother up by the arm. "Not here," Percy hissed.

"Percy's right," said Wood. "Up you come — back to the common room with all of us, team."

As they left the corridor they found the staircase in place, and when they had all boarded it took them back over to where it normally was. Wood lead the pack and Percy brought up the rear, the other upper years flanking them as they went. They didn't speak as they walked, and they all walked faster than they normally might have. They didn't even stop when they arrived at the portrait, Neville standing there trying to guess the password — Percy merely gave the correct password and then they were all shuffled inside, spilling into the common room.

"What on earth are they thinking keeping a beast like that in a school?" said Ron, repeating himself, as he collapsed on a cushion next to Dean. The other first years had been playing a game of exploding snap and looked up at them.

“What beast?” Neville asked.

“A dog with three heads,” said Parvati, flopping down in the circle. “Oh, what do you call them?” 

“A cerberus,” said Hermione, sitting down next to her. 

“That’s all well to question why there is a large, three-headed dog in the school,” said Wood. He, too, sat down in their circle, and was joined by the three girls who had helped rescue them. “But it also might be well to consider why exactly the castle did as it did just now. I’ve never seen it force students anywhere like that.” 

“It's all my fault." Roswitha had spoken softly, but everyone still turned to her when she spoke.

Ron, twisted around to look at her, creased his face. "But... you asked the castle to take us back. You didn't tell it to vanish the stairs and the landing and all that."

Roswitha felt dizzy. "It asked me to do something, though, and I didn't. And I think that's why it made us go up there and look at the dog."

"The castle." Percy paused as soon as he spoke to take off his glasses and scrub at his eyes. "The _castle _asked you to do something?"

"Yes," said Roswitha, with a nod.

Percy sighed and pulled her down into the pile of people, her friends scooting closer around her. "You look as if you're about to faint."

"Is..." A dark skinned girl who had helped rescue them pursed her lips and asked, "I feel silly for asking, but is the castle alive?"

Roswitha, ensconced with Hermione to her right, Ron to her right, and Percy at her back, felt warm and safe. "It's not alive like you or I are alive. But the castle is old — and unlike family houses, like mine, there were four people who built it and hundreds of people doing magic here all the time. The castle sort of absorbs the magic and then it... it changes." She frowned. "I'm not explaining this very well."

"Our family home in India is like that," said Parvati in a quiet voice. She had sprawled out, her head in Lavender's lap and her feet in Seamus'. "My dad's always complaining about how the one here is too young and if wants to move the furniture he has to do it himself."

Sophie, frowning thoughtfully, said, "We didn't have desks in our dorm room the night we arrived, but we did the next morning."

"No fair," said a second year girl among their rescuers. "I'd love a desk in our room."

"All you really need to do is ask," said Roswitha, around a yawn. "And the castle will listen. We all belong to Hogwarts, so Hogwarts will listen to all of us."

"Then why did it ask ye to do something?" said Wood. "Why not ask an older student or a professor?"

"It said it was because I was the only one who could hear."

"And why," asked Percy, flicking her in the ear, "did you not tell a Professor?"

"I was going to," said Roswitha, pinching his leg in response. "But I wanted..." She trailed of and flushed. "I wanted to tell Draco first — I told him about the first time it happened —"

"And how many times as it happened?" said Wood, as he and Percy began to wear very similar, very concerned faces.

Feeling herself turn red, Roswitha answered and then kept talking quickly before she lost her nerve, "Just two. And I told Draco about the first, and I wanted to tell him about the second, but, but now we aren't talking." To her great embarrassment, Roswitha began to cry in front of her friends and the upper years who had saved her.

No one seemed to mind though, as Percy only rubbed her back and Hermione stroked her hair. Ron attempted to offer her a kerchief, but Scabbers came up at the end, so Seamus ended up offering her one instead. Her tears were gone soon enough, and she handed Seamus back his kerchief.

"Well, first thing tomorrow morning," said Percy, sounding very serious and a little pompous, "you and I will go and speak with Professor McGonagall about whatever it was the castle told you."

Roswitha nodded, actually glad of the prospect of Percy going with her. "Alright then."

Seemingly out of nowhere, a seventh year leaned over from out of the wingback chairs near the fire. "I have two questions: do we really have to ask just to get a desk in our room? And what is the castle wanted you to find?"

Roswitha looked around her and found all eyes in the common room rested on their little group. She felt herself flushing again — both at being listened to and because everyone. "Er, yes you do have to just ask — nicely, mind, don't demand anything. And it didn't know what it was. Hogwarts said..." Roswitha wracked her brain for the right wording. "Hogwarts said that it was a pebble compared to its size and a mountain compared to its magic."

"I dunno how big this dog was," said Dean, with a frown, "but surely it wasn't a 'mountain' in magic compared to Hogwarts."

"It was standing on a trap door," said Hermione, with a small shrug. "Maybe whatever Hogwarts was talking about was underneath that."

"You noticed a trap door with a three-headed dog staring you down?" Ron asked, eyes wide.

Hermione shrugged. "You probably still remember all the positions of yours and Parvati's chess game. We all have our strengths. I agree with Percy, though. The teachers are best to investigate whatever it is, or listen to what Hogwarts wants."

"So, we reserve actually going down the trap door as plan b?" Fay asked.

"As plan never," said Percy sternly. He looked at all of them so firmly, his glasses began to slip down his nose. "I mean it — do not go looking for trouble."

"Sure, Perce," said Ron, with a nod. He nudged Roswitha, giving her a sidelong look as he did.

The portrait hole swung open and Fred and George and Lee entered singing a merry tune, stopping only when they saw Percy and Ron. "What's this?" asked Fred.

"Family cuddles without us?" asked George.

Percy rolled his eyes and grabbed the closest twin and pulled him down into his side.

"What are we talking about?" Lee asked, as he said down between Fred and the second year girl who rescued them.

"A heist," said Seamus.

"No heists!" Percy declared.

"Boxing then," said Ron. He nudged Roswitha again. "You said you'd teach me how to box if I promised not to try and deck Draco Malfoy. I didn't deck him today when he was being a total pill about Neville."

Roswitha licked her lips. "I did say that, didn't I?"

"Great!" said Wood, with a grin. "We'll all learn!"

Their rescuers, Fred and George groaned.

"Oliver," said the dark skinned girl.

"Angelina," Wood replied.

"Oliver, we've got classes and other things," said another girl.

"Not everything can be about quidditch," said the second year girl.

"Katie and Alicia are right," said Fred. "We'll have OWLs in two years. We need to study."

Percy flicked Fred in the ear. "Likely story."

"And I have OWLs this year," said Oliver. "Roswitha got me thinking this afternoon when she mentioned it — she's our new seeker by the by — and I think it would make us more endurant to cross train with other sports. Easier to be in the air for long stretches I mean."

"If you make us do this I am quitting the team," said Angelina, her face stoney.

Oliver began to pout. "Just one week? And then if you don't like it you can stop."

Angelina narrowed her eyes and glared at Oliver for a long moment. Then she said, "One week."

They began hashing out details from there, and after a time, Percy declared they could all talk about it later. Everyone needed to do their homework or start getting ready for bed.

Roswitha went without complaint, though Neville stopped her at the stairs. “Thanks for what you did,” he said to her.

“What do you mean?” Roswitha asked, cocking her head to one side. 

Neville shrugged, pink tinging his cheeks. “I dunno. But I know you did something. And I know you did it for me. So thank you.” Hesitating for a moment, Neville leaned over and kissed her cheek before dashing up the stairs to the boys dorm.

Roswitha did the same, her own cheeks flushed, as she curled up in bed with _A Wizard of Earthsea. _Lavender, maybe just curious, maybe sensing that her roommates were shaken, asked if Roswitha would read aloud to them. Glad of the company, Roswitha turned back to the beginning of the book and began again. 


	8. The Heist Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I forgot the dates again, so this will be a double update!

The next morning Roswitha rose as normal, went for her run with Dean, surprisingly accompanied by both Oliver, Ron, and Sophie. Roswitha expected Oliver, but Ron was a bit of a surprise and Sophie a bit of a shock. Sophie only shrugged and said, "It sounds like boxing could be interesting."

The three didn't quite struggle along, but neither was it easy for them. Dean and Roswitha had a lot more experience running and doing pushups and sit ups and the like. Dean began shouting encouragements at them, and, since they all seemed heartened by them, Roswitha began shouting the same. "You can do it, just five more."

"You do this every day?" Ron asked between huffs and puffs as they jogged back to the castle.

Roswitha nodded. "It gets easier as you go, my first boxing lesson I was practically weak as a kitten. Now, I'm much better."

They made their way back to the dorm, Sophie mumbling about bribing Parvati or one of the others so she could take a hot bath. That, of course, let to Roswitha's suggestion that they do a little yoga together since that would loosen her up. Of course, since she mentioned it within the boys' hearing, they wanted to do it as well, only the boys couldn't come up into the girls' dormitory. Parvati, around a yawn, just grabbed her yoga mat when Roswitha managed to explain and went down to the common room.

"You do this _every _day?" Ron asked as he struggled a little with the warrior pose.

"Move your foot," Parvati ordered looking at him.

"Which foot?"

When Percy came down stairs to fetch Roswitha, he only sighed at the sight of them and then ordered her to go and get dressed. What Percy, perhaps, did not count on was that even though they didn't do absolutely everything together, the first years _did _always walked down to breakfast together. He had a bit of a twitch as they all gabbed about the day, made slightly worse as Oliver Wood had elected to come with them. Percy's twitch seemed to calm down just a little when Oliver reached out and held his hand.

Professor McGonagall hadn't come down for breakfast yet, so they all sat and began to eat.

"I'll admit it is sort of nice to have breakfast while few others are here," said Percy, drinking a cup of tea. "But I honestly don't know how the ten of you manage to get up this early every morning."

"Ros and Dean," said eight of the first years as one.

Percy rolled his eyes. "Of course. Gunning for prefect a little early, eh, you two?"

Roswitha and Dean looked at one another, grimacing. "No," they both said together.

Percy opened his mouth, probably to object, but then said, "Professor McGonagall's here, come on, Roswitha."

Roswitha rose from her seat, feeling her heart leap up into her throat as she and Percy stood and made their way to the head table.

Professor McGonagall frowned. "Is something the matter, Mr. Weasley?"

"Something is, Professor," said Percy with a nod. "Roswitha isn't in any trouble, but she needed to speak with you about something. I volunteered to help her. Go ahead Roswitha."

Roswitha began to speak, talking about how the castle had talked to her and sometimes she could talk to buildings. It had seemed so simple to explain before, about how Twegrim was magic and she was the only Black and therefore talked to her house a lot, and about how Hogwarts had so much magic that it could connect with her easily since she knew how. But with Professor McGonagall just looking at her and saying nothing, Roswitha felt like none of what she said made sense. Percy had to keep nudging her to go on. Only when she got to the part about what had happened yesterday with the third floor corridor did Professor McGonagall interrupt.

"That corridor is out of bounds Miss Black," said the Professor looking over the frames of her glasses.

"It wasn't their fault professor," said Percy, shaking his head. "I saw the whole thing — Hogwarts moved the stairs and forced them up into that corridor."

Professor McGonagall sighed. "Mr. Weasley, I know you are not prone to exaggeration, but do you not think that if Hogwarts could speak to someone it wouldn't have already had this conversation with the headmaster?"

"It's tried talking before," said Roswitha, frowning. "But no one really listens — I'm used to listening to Number 12 because I'm the Mistress there, so Hogwarts knew I could hear it."

"Miss Black," said Professor McGonagall in a tone that brokered no nonsense. "While the staircases are known to move, and therefore I am inclined to believe you did not go looking for trouble, I am also inclined to believe that you are stressed and therefore dreaming up noises that you think are the castle. Until and unless you can bring me proof of your claims, then I am afraid I will simply have to advise that you avoid the third floor corridor under penalty of detention at the very least. Am I understood?"

Percy opened his mouth to speak, to insist, but Roswitha trod gently on his foot. "I understand, Professor," said Roswitha, her voice smoother than it had been for her past five minute interaction. And Roswitha did understand. She understood that the Professors, or at the least, Professor McGonagall, were not going to help her. "May we be excused then?"

"You may," said Professor McGonagall.

Roswitha turned back to the table, Percy following her.

"Why did you do that?" Percy hissed. "We could have tried again."

"I don't think she's going to believe us, Percy," said Roswitha, as she got closer to the group, her mouth set in a frown.

"Didn't go well then?" Hermione asked.

Roswitha shook her head.

"So then," said Dean. "Heist?"

Though Percy sputtered his protests and his "absolutely nots," Roswitha nibbled her lip. Perhaps, just perhaps, if she could get the item the professors were hiding, then that would be proof enough for Professor McGonagall.

\---

As it was Friday, they did not have a class until astronomy at midnight, so Roswitha and Ron began to look around for a place to hold boxing. The others, even if they were not interested in a boxing lesson, came along with them. They did not have to look for long until they came across a classroom where they found old, leather punching bags hung from the ceilings, and rugs that would have to double as mats, and other equipment.

Roswitha slumped down on the carpet, covering her knees with her skirt, the others following her lead. 

As Dean opened his mouth, Hermione beat him to it. “We are not doing a heist.”

“Aww,” said Dean. “But Hermione!”

“No,” said Hermione in return. She skillfully raised one eyebrow as Professor Snape often did. “For one thing, we have no idea what the thing is we would be stealing or how dangerous it may be. For another, we have no idea what else might be guarding it besides the cerberus. And for a third,_ we would be stealing_ _from Hogwarts_.”

Roswitha shook her head. “Not from Hogwarts — Hogwarts wants us to take it. But it _would_ be stealing, even if it’s from the faculty and not the school.” She ran her fingers through her hair and began to braid it just to have something to do with her hands.

“You should knit,” said Fay. As one everyone turned to her. Fay flushed but said, “It’s what my mum says whenever I fidget. It does help me focus, though.”

Ron grinned. “I bet my mum would be thrilled if I asked her for knitting needles. She’s trying to teach Ginny, but Ginny doesn’t want to learn.” 

“But the heist,” said Seamus.

“Oh.” Ron nodded emphatically. “Right. The heist.”

“Supposing,” said Neville, rubbing his chin. “That we could satisfy your three constraints, Hermione. Would you think it would be okay to go ahead with then?”

Hermione frowned and scooted closer to him. “How do you mean?” 

“I mean, if we worked out what it was we were stealing and how to get past the traps,” said Neville. “And if it would be… morally sound to steal it in the first place, then would it be more ok to do?” 

Hermione considered this and the rest of them did as well. 

“I suppose…” Lavender spoke slowly and fiddled with her thumbs as she did. She stared down at them as if wondering if she needed to knit as well. “I suppose if we knew what we were doing and why we were doing it, it would make it safer. Honestly, I don’t know that I could go along to steal something even if we did, though. Parvati told me about the dog and that all sounds terrifying. How many more traps do you think there are?” She paused again. “Maybe it’s not very Gryffindor of me, but I just don’t think I could.” 

“My mum always says it’s good to know your boundaries,” said Dean, offering her a pat on the back — or he tried too. He was a bit too far away and ended up patting her knee. “And you told us when you were afraid of how we would take it — that’s pretty brave in my book.” 

Everyone nodded in agreement as Lavender ducked her head, and Parvati, who was sitting next to her, actually did pat her back. 

Hermione, as was her wont, pulled out a composition notebook and began to write. 

“I really have to get one of those,” said Sophie, with a frown. “A plain piece of paper and a pencil is so much faster than a quill and parchment.” 

Hermione pulled a second one out of her bag and a second pencil. “They’re spares,” she said. “And it would be good to have a second person taking notes — we might write down different things.” 

Sophie then flushed. “My handwriting a bit rubbish,” she admitted. “It’s getting better since I write in my diary all the time, but still pretty rubbish.”

“I’ll do it,” said Seamus, taking the notebook and pencil from Hermione. “I won’t win awards, but I can read it after. And, as an added bonus, I can write it in Irish. There’s only a few folk here who could read it that way.” 

“Oh, good idea!” said Hermione, with a grin. “I’ll write mine in Greek. I need to practice anyway. So, our three objectives are: what are we potentially—”

“Definitely,” said Dean with a grin.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “What are we _potentially_ stealing? What obstacles might prevent us from stealing it? And should we even attempt to steal it in the first place?” She finished writing and looked up to see if Seamus had finished as well. Seamus took a second longer, but when he had, Hermione asked, “Last one first?”

Everyone nodded. 

“Alright,” said Hermione. “A basic argument against is that stealing is wrong, and therefore we shouldn’t.”

“But is it wrong in all cases?” Fay asked. “If you’re starving, and you steal food to live, is that wrong?” 

Hermione hummed with a frown, but didn’t answer. 

“I agree with Fay,” said Seamus, with a nod. “And with you Hermione. But I think there’s a difference between taking something that doesn’t belong to you just because you want it and don’t want to make fair trade. And then there’s taking something because it doesn’t belong and getting rid of it, like we’re trying to do. Or taking something back as is sometimes the case.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I think your logic is sound, it’s just…”

“Not stealing is a rule,” said Ron. “Is that what you mean? And rules are rules.”

“Well, yes,” said Hermione, with a nod. “And usually rules are put into place to keep you safe.”

“By people that love you,” said Dean, with a nod. “I follow my mum’s rules, but that doesn’t mean I always follow everyone’s. There was a teacher at my primary school who made rules for me because I was black — just for me and other black students, no one else.” He sheepishly grinned. “I told my mum about it, and he doesn’t teach there anymore. Or anywhere. He might have gone to prison, Mum wasn’t totally clear. Anyway — after that she told me that sometimes people are going to make rules just to keep other people down.” 

“Like how the Irish weren’t allowed to speak Irish under English rule!” said Seamus. He gave a false little spit against evil. “And if people hadn’t broken that rule then we would have lost all knowledge of the language.”

Hermione gave a little smile. “No fair using my love of knowledge against me.”

“It’s completely fair,” said Sophie. “I know the same thing happened in Turkey on occasion.”

“And in India,” said Parvati, with a nod. “C’mon Hermione.”

“Okay, fair point,” said Hermione. “Not all stealing is wrong — would stealing this be wrong then?” 

“Well,” said Neville, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I suppose that depends on if we believe Ros.” 

Everyone turned to look at her. 

“I’m not lying,” said Roswitha, frowning. “But Professor McGonagall thought I might be having stress dreams.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Parvati rolling her eyes. “You’re one of the most relaxed people ever. And you make us all go out and play. The seventh years are stressed. You are not.”

“Not to mention, you _do _talk to magical buildings,” said Dean, poking her in the side. “You made the compartment — I’m sorry, asked the compartment to expand,” he corrected himself when he saw her ready to correct him, “on the trip here.”

“And you got us desks in our dorm,” said Fay. 

“It sort of is reasonable to believe,” said Hermione, scribbling in her notebook, “that if you can talk to the castle and it listens, then it can talk to you and you can listen. Especially since you said your house is like Hogwarts.” 

Roswitha nodded. “Number 12 is a little younger than Hogwarts, but only by about a hundred years.” 

“That’s right,” said Ron, with a nod. “Your family was part of William’s pact, like the Malfoys.”

Roswitha nodded. “Hogwarts has just so much more magic though. Probably because its larger and there’s more people — someone once told me the building uses our magic as well as its own stored magic. Hogwarts probably doesn’t need as much of ours, though since its old and there are so many magical people around at any given time.” 

“Well, and your family house moved,” said Neville. 

“How can you move a house?” Fay asked, tilting her head to one side. “Like they took it apart and put it back together again?”

“Like how they move the castle in _Howl’s Moving Castle_,” said Roswitha. The girls all nodded, since she had loaned the book to all of them at this point, but the boys only looked more confused. “Nevermind, I’ll explain it later. Do we think I’m hallucinating or not?”

“Not,” came the solid word from the nine others.

“Alright then,” said Roswitha. “I have been given a quest by Hogwarts to find this object and get rid of it. And since Hogwarts has been here longer than the professors, surely it knows what it's talking about more than they do… right?”

Everyone thought for a moment.

Then Ron shook his head. “I think Hogwarts knows what’s best for _it_. But it is asking an eleven-year-old to something dangerous.”

Roswitha thought on that. Then she said, “Well, it’s only asking me because I’m the only one who can hear it. If it could talk to the headmaster, then I’m sure it would, if only because things would get done a lot faster. And it wants whatever it is out of the castle because the thing is dangerous and shouldn’t be here with students.”

“Well that just doubles back to safety,” said Seamus, with a frown. “So… are we going to do this or not? I’d rather not research traps and whatever powerful object this might be if we’re not going to do it.”

There was silence again.

“I can’t speak for everyone,” said Roswitha. She held perfectly still, not messing with her hands or her hair. “But I think I _have_ to do this. I don’t want anyone to do anything if they’re nervous about it, or if they feel it’s wrong.”

“Well, I won’t let you go alone,” said Ron, with a stoney face. 

“Nor me,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “You’re my friend, and I want to help you.”

“I’ll help with research as much as I can,” said Lavender.

“Me as well,” said Parvati. “And, I suppose if you need someone to sing again.” 

“I’m in,” said Fay, with a solemn nod.

“And me,” said Neville and Sophie and Dean as one.

Seamus grinned. “We’re doing it then.”

Hermione sighed. “Do we have to call it a heist though?”

After a lively round of discussion, it was agreed that they would only work on heist preparations on Fridays or the weekend when everyone was free, because apparently Hogwarts believed in long weekends. And, Hermione added, under the proviso that everyone had their homework done. Everyone groaned, but they all admitted she had a point. Even if they were doing the castle’s bidding, they still had to get decent marks or be let go. 

When they returned from the new boxing “gym” to the Gryffindor common room, Wood cornered Roswitha, saying he had compared their schedules as a team, and Thursday morning would work best for Quidditch practice, and did Roswitha have a broom of her own?

“No,” said Roswitha, shaking her head. “But my father was seeker when he was at Hogwarts. I bet he’d be thrilled to get me a broom. I really ought to write him about everything that’s gone on anyway.” 

_Dear Pappa,_

_I apologize for not writing back sooner. There’s been much going on in a few weeks since my last letter — including an incident with the staircases that I shall properly explain in person (no doubt, Father’s already heard about it). But I did want to write you to say that I had an argument with Draco because he stole a friend’s remembrall during flying class. Due to Draco trying to throw the ball away and me catching it, I’ve been made seeker for the Gryffindor House Quidditch Team. _

_Therefore I wanted to primarily write for two reasons: the first is to warn you in advance of any letters or visits you may receive from Cousin Narcissa. The second is to ask your advice on what kind of broom I should get. I know it’s been a while since you played Quidditch, but I thought you might know better than I could figure just by looking at a catalog. _

_I know it’s only been three weeks, but I miss you something awful. I hope you are well, especially given I can’t ask daily about your cursebreaking work. I love you very much, and I hope you are well. _

_Your daughter, _

_Roswitha Artemis Back._

Roswitha also wrote a letter to the Malfoys, apologizing for feuding with Draco and expressing hope that the feud would soon be ended. She asked about Lucius’ work and how Narcissa’s garden party had gone. 

Two days later, on Sunday, Roswitha received a surprise in the form of a broom shaped package that dropped on the Gryffindor table during breakfast. 

“That was quick,” Wood remarked, a few seats down from her.

“But, I didn’t order one,” said Roswitha. Despite calls to open it, Roswitha took a look at the card attached first. There wasn’t much written there, only, “That’s my girl. See you soon, darling heart. —Pappa.” 

"Go on, then," said Angelina who appeared over her shoulder. "What model is it?"

Roswitha unwrapped the broom and everyone oohed and ahhed over well polished wood and the finely stacked bristles.

Ron let out a whistle. "That's a Nimbus 2000 — awful nice of your father, given that he was in Slytherin House.” 

Roswitha flushed and elbowed Ron. “Oh hush, Slytherin isn’t all bad.”

Ron only shrugged. “Can we have a go on it? Just to make sure it's not defective."

"We second that," said Fred and George as one.

The other members of the Quidditch team looked very keen on having a go as well. In spite of the expensive gift, Roswitha found herself smiling. Without another word, she grabbed the broom and raced from the Great Hall. With a cheer, all of Gryffindor House seemed to follow behind her.

The rest of the morning became a chance for everyone who wanted to try out the broom — several first years from other houses had followed, including Susan and Hannah from Hufflepuff and Padma and her friend Su from Ravenclaw. Slowly, there came other students, who had thought that a day flying or out in the suspiciously good weather would be nice. A half hour after they initially came out a scowling Madam Hooch stomped out onto the lawn and unlocked the broom cupboard so that there might be other brooms for use. Somehow, Wood charmed her into letting them use the Quidditch balls for a pick up game — she agreed save for the snitch, which was charmed to stay near the arena, and therefore couldn't be used on the lawn. 

When she wasn't riding on the new broom — which was quite a rush in the way it handled so smoothly — Roswitha engaged the others in a game of knights. The game of knights became sort of a real sized person board game when others decided there needed to be concrete rules to siege warfare. To her surprise, all the girl Slytherins from their year joined Roswitha's team in playing. "What?" said Pansy. "Just because you're feuding with Draco doesn't mean you're feuding with us." Several of the upper years joined as well, coming up with rules and drawing colored gaming lines in the grass with their wands.

Lunch time rolled around and the whole of the castle tramped back into the great hall, worn out and slightly muddy. After eating their fill and cleaning themselves up, many went to go take naps. The first years, however, all of them, once the Gryffindor pride was seen heading in that direction, went up to the library taking the chance that it should be mostly empty now that the upper years had been thoroughly worn out. (Roswitha had to make a brief pitstop to put away her new broom.)

"What is it that you're searching for?" asked Anthony, a Ravenclaw, as Roswitha and Hermione went through looking for books about ancient magical artifacts.

Hermione pursed her lips and looked to Roswitha.

Roswitha pursed her own lips and said, "We're not quite sure. It's something that has to be older and younger than Hogwarts."

Anthony wrinkled his nose. "That's quite a riddle — and we have to..." he trailed off eyes wide. "Never mind. Let me think about that — a magical object that is both older and younger than Hogwarts. Can I ask the other Ravenclaws?"

Roswitha shrugged. "Sure," she said.

Anthony nodded, muttering to himself as he walked away.

When Hermione and Roswitha emerged from the stacks, they found that the first years had moved several tables together. The Slytherins and Ravenclaws were in whispered conference together toward the middle and Seamus was nearby writing in the composition book Hermione had given him. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were both reading and watching the Ravenclaw/Slytherin debate with fascination (excepting Ron, Parvati, Blaise and Pansy who were playing a four way game of chess). The others made room as Hermione and Roswitha came to sit down.

"So far," said Seamus with a low voice, "they've thought of the Grail, a pair of seven league boots, a philosopher's stone, golden apples (or other magical fruit, yes I heard the first time) and the mead of poetry."

Roswitha could not follow what all these things had in common, but Hermione nodded in agreement, saying, "I see — they're all things that could have existed before the founding of Hogwarts, but could have been remade or grown anew after it."

"I'm glad you see that," said Roswitha. "Because I had no idea. How useful are seven league boots?"

"Not very any more," said Daphne tapping her chin. "They used to be more useful but now we have portkeys that take us long distances."

Seamus struck a line from his notebook. "I dunno that they would necessarily have something like the Grail here," he said. "Isn't it supposed to be on Avalon or with Bran the Blessed?"

"Bran the Blessed has a cauldron, I thought," said Mandy Brocklehurst. 

"Still," said Seamus. "Avalon. I don't think anybody, even Dumbledore, could get it from there."

"That would probably be the same with any of the magic fruit," said Su, with a frown. "Maybe even the mead of poetry. All of them are protected by gods or dragons or things that would be extremely difficult to get passed."

"That would leave a philosopher's stone," said Anthony with a nod.

"Don't you mean _the_ Philosopher's Stone?" asked Terry Boot. 

Anthony shrugged. "Nicolas Flamel has the most well known one — but he was taught how to make it by a rabbi. Specifically he was entrusted with the last bit that came from the old temple. Why the rev gave it to a goy, who knows? But Bubbe always said that there had to be rabbis who knew how to make one even if they didn't have one already made. Like Golems."

Roswitha frowned. "Where do I know the name Nicolas Flamel from?"

Pansy looked up from the four person chess match. "From Dumbledore's chocolate frog card. They're alchemy partners."

As one the Ravenclaws grew contemplative.

"Is this a hypothetical question?" asked Padma.

"Because it's starting to sound a little less hypothetical," said Anthony.

"Are you talking about the quest without me?"

Roswitha turned and found Draco standing over her shoulder. She stared at him and said nothing.

Draco huffed, turning to where Neville was reading a book about Herbology. "Longbottom, may I speak with you privately, please?"

Neville thought for a moment, then marked his place and set the book down, following Draco over to a different corner of the library.

"You have a quest?" Millicent asked, in a voice so filled with hiss Roswitha almost didn't hear it.

She flushed and tried to think of a lie as quickly as she could. “Well, yes I’ve a quest,” she said. “But it’s… hmmm… it’s something only I can do. I’m trying to keep it as low profile as possible so nobody gets hurt. So far only the Gryffindors know.”

"And Draco," said Pansy, reaching over to pinch her

Roswitha pinched her back. "Draco's my cousin when I'm speaking to him. Of course I tell him things. But anyway, the fewer people who know all the details the better." Speaking of people who shouldn’t know the details of what they were discussing. Roswitha looked up to check and make sure Madam Pince wasn't watching them. The librarian was currently frowning over a returned item, but since safe was better than sorry, she raised her wand and encanted “_Muffliato_,” which she had seen Father use just about a hundred times.

“What does that do?” Kevin Entwhistle asked. 

“If people try to listen in, all they’ll here is a sort of muffled buzz,” said Roswitha. 

“Neat!” said Ron. “I’ll have to remember that one for when Fred and George are around. 

Said Roswitha, “Anyway, it wouldn’t be a good idea to share too much. Not because I don’t want to or anything, but just because I don’t want anybody to get in trouble for me.” 

Several of the other first years pouted at this notion, probably because they, like Draco, had always wanted to have a quest.

"Well," said Anthony, as he nibbled the end of his quill. "Flamel's philosopher's stone does have a personal connection to Dumbledore, and there is a piece of it that comes from the old temple, like I said, which is definitely older than Hogwarts. On the whole, though, it would have been made in the fourteenth century, well after Hogwarts founding."

"It would also be fairly small," said Daphne. "But the power to grant life and wealth... well, that's got to have more magic than Hogwarts, eh?"

Just then, Neville and Draco returned. "Is everyone apart of the quest now?" Neville asked, resuming his former seat. Draco wedged himself in between Roswitha and Seamus.

Roswitha sighed. “No, not everyone. And no one is allowed to get hurt.” 

Susan pipped up from the other end of their set of tables, where the Hufflepuffs had been in quiet conference with one another as Roswitha told her tale. “Tell that to the three-headed dog. But Hufflepuff, well we help each other. And we’ve a suggestion for other get togethers, even if they aren’t questing related.”

“We’re all ears Susan,” said Roswitha.

“We should find another place to meet about this,” said a Hufflepuff, whose name Roswitha was reasonably sure was Hephaestus. “Even with charms, the library is too public.” 

“Maybe we could find a classroom large enough for forty seats,” said Draco.

“And a round table,” said Ron looking up from the chess game. “So no one has a higher position than another.” 

“You would say that,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. 

“And what does that mean?” asked Seamus, leveling a fierce glare at Draco.

Draco only looked perplexed. “He’s got a father called Arthur, you know. So of course he’d know about the round table.” 

Daphne perked up. “Pince is coming this way.”

Quickly, someone canceled the muffliato charm, and everyone began stowing their gear to leave the library. 

“What’s going on here?” Madam Pince asked as she came closer. 

“We were getting too loud,” said Roswitha, smiling brightly. “So we decided to move our activities somewhere else, to preserve the sanctity of the library.”

Madam Pince looked taken aback. “Oh,” she said, as if no one had ever thought to leave the library when they were being too loud. 

Most of the first years fled in her presence, except for the ones who had books to check out. They dutifully waited at Madam Pince’s desk for the few moments it took her to collect herself and begin checking things out to them. 

Draco cornered her outside of the library. “I apologized.” 

Roswitha frowned at him. She picked Neville out of the students leaving the library and grabbed his sleeve. “How did it go?” she asked.

Neville blinked, but then nodded. “Pretty well, I think for a very first apology. It sounded like he meant it, and I forgave Draco for what he said. We didn’t shake hands though.” 

Roswitha turned to Draco. “Shake his hand.”

Draco grimaced. “Do I have to? I don’t like touching people.” 

Neville only stuck out his hand. “I’m from the north. We shake hands.”

Draco kept his grimace, but shook Neville’s hand. 

“Thanks, Neville,” said Roswitha. 

Neville nodded to her and continued on his way, presumably back to the common room. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Can we be friends again?” 

“Will you ignore me when I’m with other friends and then get mad about it?” Roswitha asked. 

“I don’t know,” said Draco, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe.” 

That he admitted it took Roswitha aback for a moment. “Oh.” Then, “Can you try? Or at least tell me when you want to play with just us.” 

“I’ll try,” said Draco.

Roswitha supposed that was all she was going to get. “Alright then.”

Draco smiled, slow and shy. “So, what did the quest end up being about?”

Roswitha took him by the arm and they strolled around the halls as she filled him in. 

After supper Roswitha took off with Dean (she would have gone alone, but he insisted on being with her) to find a classroom big enough to hold forty people. It took them perhaps a half hour of wandering the halls until Hogwarts led them to a large room with a round table in the middle, bookshelves up against one set of walls, a fireplace, comfortable chairs and cushions to rest on and more.

“Does Hogwarts listen when we go to the bathroom as well?” Dean asked, with a grin. “We should make a sign so the upper years don’t try to use the room.” Then he frowned. “But if we call it the first year clubhouse, will we have to give it up to the first years who come next year?” 

“We could call it the 98 Clubhouse,” said Roswitha.

Dean clicked his fingers. “I like it, Captain.”

They figured they would tell everyone about the new clubhouse the next day directly after potions, but it did not end up going to plan. 

The next morning in Potions, everything was going swimmingly. Since she and Draco had made up, he asked to sit next to her, and he was polite enough that Fay moved with a smile and went to sit next to Pansy. They listened to Professor Snape’s lecture on that day’s potion, before Roswitha wrote down the recipe as she always did, and she and Draco prepared their ingredients as they always did and the potion looked as the board said it should when they finished. They wrote their names on two different phials and bottled them up. However, when Roswitha delivered the phials to Professor Snape’s desk he said, “Stay after class, Miss Black.” 

Roswitha started and thankfully did not drop her phials. “Yes, sir,” she said, depositing the phials in the rack and going to help Draco finish cleaning their bench. 

“What’s that about?” Draco whispered. 

“Dunno,” said Roswitha. 

They cleaned up, and, slowly, everyone began to filter out of the classroom, except Roswitha who remained behind. She stepped off to the side of Professor Snape’s desk and waited there until the last group was finished with their potion and left the classroom. 

Professor Snape drew his wand and pointed it at the doorway. Roswitha watched as he cast the muffliato charm — there was a piece of black robe just hanging over the door frame edge. She wondered if all of the Gryffindor first years were together, or if it was all of them plus the Slytherins. 

“Now that we have some privacy,” said Professor Snape, waving his wand again, so that one of the bench stools came to rest beside his desk. “Sit down, Roswitha. There are some things I wish to discuss with you.” 

“Am I in trouble, Professor?” asked Roswitha, taking a set and smoothing out her robes and her skirt. She worried, for a moment, that someone had spilled the beans about the quest.

“Not quite,” said Professor Snape, looking her in the eye. “Did you notice that you tend to set trends among your peers, child?” 

“How do you mean, sir?” asked Roswitha, dropping her gaze to the floor. Normally, she liked Father’s eyes — they were so dark they were nearly black, like obsidian, except when the light hit them just right. But now, just now, there was something odd about the way his eyes seemed. Something that made her want to avoid them. 

“Do not play coy with me, Miss Black,” said Professor Snape, his voice sounding cold. Then he sighed, and dropped a part of his fasçade. “What you do others copy — from how to prepare for potions, to playing games, to all four houses amicably spending time in the library together. People _like_ you, child, and because of that they do as you do.”

“Is that wrong, sir?” Roswitha asked. It wasn’t exactly bad the way she prepared her potions, or how everyone followed her to play. Then again, though, Father probably didn’t know about it, everyone had volunteered to help her steal a magical object of extreme power. It wasn’t as if she wanted to _use_ the object of magical power, though. She was only planning on stealing it because Hogwarts had asked her to do it, and that was different, wasn’t it?

Father grumbled. “Perhaps not with what you have done. But you are a child, Roswitha, you are sure to make a mistake in your life. Do you want others to follow you so blindly that they will make the same mistakes? Some weeks ago, you asked how you might know if you were turning into your uncle. He too, was charismatic and could convince others to follow him without hesitation. And because of that he led others to grave mistakes.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone!” Roswitha protested with a scowl. 

“I never said you were,” said Father, sounding like he had his own scowl firmly in place. “But, though you are still young, you must learn how to temper your authority on others. I’ve heard how your housemates call you ‘captain’ as if they would follow you into the breach.”

They would, Roswitha knew. “I don’t mean to,” she said. For she didn’t. 

Father sighed. “Look at me, Roswitha.” 

Roswitha looked up, meeting his eye. The world did not end and the ceiling did not come crashing down. There was not so much as a tingle. “Roswitha,” he said. “It is not wrong that people like you or follow your example. And it isn’t as if I believe you will grow to be a villain who lusts for power over the world. You are kind and generous. Still, it would do you well to temper your own… charm over your friends.”

“How d’you mean?” Roswitha asked. 

Father huffed a little. “For starters, you could ask your friends to stop calling you ‘Captain.’” 

Roswitha frowned and shook her head. “I could ask, but I don’t think they will. I think I see what you mean, though, sir.” She didn’t, not really, but she respected her father enough to think on it and try to see it his way. “I’ll think of something.” 

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. You owe me an essay on the benefits and deficits of pre-preparing potions ingredients. You may hand it in in two weeks’ time.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Roswitha, nodding, switching back to the other way of things. “May I go, sir?” 

“You may,” said Professor Snape, nodding in return. “But I would dearly love to know what solution you come up with. You can tell both Regulus and I when he comes to dinner after the first Quidditch match.” 

Roswitha collected her bag and gave him a deep nod. “I certainly will, sir.” She scuttled from the classroom as quickly as she could, stopping only a moment to wave goodbye. 

\---

The days seemed to pick up steam now that they had come into October. They all knew their way around the castle now, so there was no more getting lost on the way to class. 

Roswitha noticed more of the Quidditch team joining her and Dean on their runs despite the initial grumbles and rumbles at first. After the third day or so of them joining the rumblings and grumblings stopped. With the Quidditch team joining their morning runs, the yoga group also grew as it allowed everyone to stretch their sore muscles. And since they had to move into the common room more people began to join them. Quidditch practice began on Thursday mornings for two hours, since they all had that time free. Roswitha also convene a boxing session during the 3rd block of the day as that was when the Gryffindor first years were always free. She, Ron, Dean, Seamus, and Fay came together to work on their combinations, punch the punching bags, and do a set of calisthenics. If they had a fourth hour class, they always ended up coming in sweaty and a little unkempt.

Overall classes were going well too. Roswitha, having read all the text books multiple times at this point, consistently got good marks on her essays and almost never had homework for DADA as all Professor Quirrel ever assigned was reading. Roswitha still reviewed those chapters, and instead of reading them again would practice the spells listed.

Their little group was splitting up more and more though, Roswitha noticed. It wasn't a bad thing — it was just they tended to form smaller groups to study with or talk to and those that had the same interests tended to flock together — Lavender with Parvati, Fay with Sophie, Dean with Seamus, and Ron and Hermione with Roswitha. Neville, often, liked to go off on his own and bring back flowers or work in the greenhouses.

One evening, when they were all together though, playing a round of snap, Roswitha announced, "I've been thinking. I’m sort of the leader now, aren’t I?"

Hermione, quite deadpan, looked her in the eye saying. “Truly you have a dizzying intellect.” 

"Wait ‘till I get going! …Where was I?" replied Dean. 

“Australia,” said Hermione.

“Yes! Australia!” At the confused looks of the others, he filled in, "It's from a film. We all really need to meet in London over the holiday and go and see a movie."

There was chatter for a moment about making possible plans for such a thing and then they came back around to Roswitha.

"Well," said Roswitha, trying to turn her face into a straight line. "Tell me if I'm wrong, but in the group, I _have _sort of been made leader."

"You're not wrong," said Seamus, shuffling the cards.

Roswitha nodded. "Well, I was talking with Professor Snape, and he mentioned something about tempering my power. Which is to say, I don't think I have power over all of you or anything — I'm not your lord and master or anything."

"We do listen to almost everything you say, though," said Fay, as Seamus began dealing a new hand.

"And you are good at it," said Dean. He flashed a grin at her. "You're our captain, Captain."

"But that's just it, if we're going to have a captain, I think we ought to have someone else that's equal to a Captain," said Roswitha.

"Ros," said Neville tilting his head to one side. "We're eleven."

"I'm twelve," said Hermione, puffing out her chest as a joke.

"Since when?" Ron asked.

"Since September 19," said Hermione.

Fay said, "Ros, I know this is important to you, but can we pause and sing happy birthday to Hermione since she hid it from us?"

"Agreed," said Roswitha.

Hermione immediately buried her face in her hands as they all sang off key and loudly, attracting the attention of others nearby who joined in, and clapped when all was said and done. "Anyway," said Hermione, waving a hand, the other still on her face. "What were you saying, Ros?"

"I was saying, we aren't going to be eleven forever." Roswitha nibbled her lip. "And I don't want to end up like my uncle. So if I'm going to be Captain, we need a, oh, I don't know —"

"A Commander Spock," said Seamus, with a nod. "Spock always tempers Kirk."

"That's from Star Trek?" Hermione asked, tilting her head to the side.

"My da and I watch it together," said Seamus with a nod.

Sophie wrinkled her nose. "Doesn't a commander outrank a captain in the military proper?"

They all turned to Dean who shrugged. "Couldn't tell you — that's the navy. We're an army family."

"Say, what about a quartermaster?" Hermione asked. "During the golden age of piracy, there was always a captain and a quartermaster of a ship. The captain was the war time leader, but the quartermaster had just as much power as the captain, and furthermore the crew voted on everything unless there was a battle."

"Cor, Hermione, how'd you know that?" Ron asked, wide-eyed.

Hermione flushed and ducked her head. "I just like pirates, that's all. They were one of the first examples of a true democracy in modern times, even before the US."

"I kind of like the idea of a quartermaster," said Parvati, with a nod and a smile.

"It would be James Bond if not Star Trek," said Seamus with a nod.

"All in favor?" Roswitha asked, raising her hand.

The others did as well.

"Alright then," said Roswitha, nodding. "Then I want to nominate Dean as Quartermaster."

"I'll second that," said Seamus, wrapping the table with his knuckles.

Dean drew back a little. "Me? What for?"

"You do have the best read on everyone," Lavender told him. "And you and Roswitha always go off and do the things that need to be done, like finding the room for the club house."

"And you always want everyone to be safe and together," said Sophie. "I think you'd be a great quartermaster, Dean."

Dean was quiet for a moment before he nodded. "Alright, then, I'll accept. All in favor?"

The nine others besides him raise their hand.

"I'll abstain," Dean announced, when everyone lowered their hands. "But I guess that means I'm Quartermaster."

"Welcome aboard, Q," said Roswitha, nudging him in the ribs.

"Thank you, Captain," said Dean.

"Well, now that we've had elections, can we go back to snap?" Ron asked. "The cards are all about to blow."

And true to his word, they did.

They all laughed together and dealt another hand once things had calmed down.

\---

Roswitha was across the room in charms class on Halloween when Ron and Hermione had a bit of a spat, and she stayed after to ask Professor Flitwick on a recommendation of further reading, so she didn’t hear about it until she went to lunch. She had been in a particularly good mood; since there was a feast that night, etiquette classes were canceled, and given that she had joined the quidditch team, Madam Hooch had given her a reprieve from flying, so after charms she was free for the day. Then she sat down at the Gryffindor table, noticed everyone looking quite glum and two of her friends missing. 

“Where’s Ron and Hermione?” she asked. 

Dean huffed. “Ron was mean to Hermione because Hermione was kind of snotty to him. Hermione’s in the bathroom crying, and Ron’s gone back to the dormitory.” 

“Oh my.” Ron was not prone to miss meals, and Hermione was not prone to cry. 

“I figure as Captain and Quartermaster we should probably go and talk to them,” said Dean, before he bit into a piece of chicken.

Roswitha raised an eyebrow at him. 

“What?” Dean shrugged. “It’s no use dealing with emotions on an empty stomach.” 

Roswitha sighed, realized Dean was right, and tucked in. 

After lunch, Dean went to the dorms, and Roswitha went to the bathroom with napkins full of food. Hermione had mostly consoled herself, but started crying again as she talked about how rude Ron was being. 

“He called me a know it all without any friends,” said Hermione, around a few sobs. “And it doesn’t even make sense! We have the same friends! We’re friends! Or so I thought anyway…” 

Roswitha rubbed Hermione’s back and listened to her patiently. When Hermione had finished her many complaints against Ron, Roswitha tried to convince her to come back to the Gryffindor dorm. 

“You go ahead,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “I want to be alone a little while longer.” 

“Are you sure?” Roswitha asked.

Hermione nodded. 

“Alright,” said Roswitha. “I’ll check on you again before the feast.”

Roswitha figured she would save her energy on getting Hermione to come to the feast instead of trying to get her to leave the bathroom just now. 

Dean and Ron weren’t in the common room when Roswitha arrived there, and so she went up to her dorm and laid down on the bed. Surprisingly, comforting someone took a lot of energy. Roswitha just thought to rest her eyes, only to have someone shake her awake.

Roswitha sat up rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?” 

“Just gone four,” said Lavender, hovering next to her bed. “May Ron borrow your cold basket? He wants to take food from the feast to Hermione so they can talk.” 

“Alright,” said Roswitha, blinking at her bedspread. “It’s in my coffer.”

Lavender patted her back. “You go have a nice bath to wake up, and I’ll take it to him.” 

Roswitha took Lavender’s suggestion, drawing herself a bath a little colder than she normally had and scrubbing herself down. By the time she dried herself off she felt wide awake, and dressed in a clean, pressed uniform, leaving her hair down to dry. 

Everyone, sans Ron and Hermione, waited for her downstairs, so they could walk down to the feast together. 

“I feel sort of bad that they’re missing their first Halloween feast here,” said Roswitha. 

“Well, you did what you could,” said Sophie, with a shrug. “My parents always make me talk to my siblings when I say something’s wrong and that works pretty well. Maybe it’ll be the same for Ron and Hermione.” 

Roswitha tried to look at it that way and had soon put her mind off of it. The Halloween feast lived up to, and possibly exceeded, the opening feast. More than the food, there was a troupe of lived bats trained to make different shapes. They seemed to prefer being one large bat or a pumpkin — or perhaps they didn’t have much of a chance to show off as Professor Quirrell raced into the hall shouting, “TROLL! TROLL! TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!” before fainting dead away. 

Someone started to scream, and then many others joined them. Professor Dumbledore rose, unperturbed by the screams, his wand lifted up, purple fireworks streaming out of the end. The hall fell quiet. “Prefects,” he said in a voice no louder than he regularly used. “Lead your house back to their dorm. Slytherin House, remain here at present. Teachers, with me.” 

Percy circled around them immediately, counting off. “There are two of you missing.”

Roswitha frowned. “I know where they are — the girls bathroom on the second floor. I’ll get them Percy.” 

“Safety in numbers,” said Dean, rising from his seat. “I’ll go with, Captain.” 

“You most certainly will not!” Percy cried out. 

Roswitha looked up at him. “We’re just going to do it anyway when you’re not looking.” 

Percy turned bright red at the admission, and opened his mouth to say something. Alexandra hip checked him and cut him off. “Oh, just go with them Percy. I can manage the rest.” 

Still red, Percy forcibly nodded, “Alright, you two with me.” 

Tailing behind Percy, Roswitha and Dean raced after him. They ran as fast as they could through the crowds and then broke off, headed up to the second floor corridor and toward the girls' bathroom. And that's when they saw the troll — twice as tall as Hagrid and dragging a large club behind him.

"Tell me that's not the bathroom where they are," said Percy in a low voice.

"Can't, I'm afraid," said Roswitha. "Have you covered trolls yet, Percy?"

"Everything I've ever read just said to avoid at all costs," said Percy. "Trolls are very strong, but very stupid which makes them very unpredictable."

"Maybe we try to outsmart it first, run away second, fight for a third?" asked Dean.

Percy frowned. "We should go for a teacher, but we can't leave Ron and Hermione alone. After this I'm learning the patronus charm, I swear. C'mon, quiet now."

They crept up to the bathroom door, and inside there was no sign of Ron or Hermione at first. Then, Roswitha spotted her basket on one of the stalls. "Look," she whispered pointing.

"Have they left do you think?" Percy asked.

"No," said Dean, shaking his head. "They're standing on the toilet."

As if on cue, one of them slipped and there came a loud sloshing noise. 

The troll slow turn its head toward the stall, and Percy raised his wand, quietly encanting, “_Papallio pervolito_,” swishing his wand in a wide arc. The motion created a series of butterflies made of light, which flew over the troll and began to circle its head, turning it back away from the stalls. 

Roswitha, before the troll turned all the way around, ducked into the bathroom and behind it turning as it turned so she wouldn’t be spotted even as Percy and Dean hissed at her to come back. Roswitha didn’t listen, though, making it to the stall and into the one next to it before the toll could notice. 

“Ron, Hermione,” she said as softly as she could. 

“Ros, tell me there’s a teacher out there,” said Hermione in return. 

“Just Percy and Dean, I’m afraid,” said Roswitha. “Percy’s distracting the troll. Let me peek out and see if we can sneak around.” 

Roswitha peeked, and sure enough, Percy had the troll backed into a corner. “C’mon,” she whispered. “The coast is clear.” 

Ron and Hermione stepped down from the toilette, pausing as Ron sloshed a little stepping out of the actual bowl, and waited to see if the troll would notice. It didn’t. They then crept along the floor as quietly and quickly as they could. Perhaps too quickly, for Ron’s sodden shoe made him slip on the stone floors. Ron, as he hit the ground let out a perfunctory, “OW!” without really meaning too. 

Everyone froze — everyone except the troll, who turned around and saw them just standing there. Hermione froze, and Roswitha had to fight her instinct to run away combined with her instinct to protect her friends. Ron reacted — he already had his wand in his hand and he cast the first spell he thought of, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The troll had just raised his club, but when he brought down his hand in a swinging motion, the club was no longer there. Instead, it was floating in the air. The troll reached up and tried to grab it, making Ron squeak and lose control of his spell. The club crashed down onto the troll’s head, knocking him clear unconscious. He began to fall to the floor as Professor Quirrell had done, not a half hour ago.

This time, Roswitha grabbed Ron and Hermione and pulled them out of the way as the troll collapsed, barely missing them with its enormous weight. 

The first person who regained the ability to speak, as they stared down at the troll body was Percy. “That was very stupid,” he said as he grabbed Ron into a tight embrace. 

Ron didn’t say anything, but hugged his brother tightly. 

Dean looked a little pale, as did Hermione, and so they all just stood there in shock watching the troll’s motionless body for a few minutes. That same position was how the teachers found them a minute later. 

“Mr. Weasley!” cried Professor McGonagall, likely addressing Percy. “You are supposed to be leading students away from danger, not to it!”

Percy frowned at her — it was probably the first time he had ever been reprimanded, AND he had done the right thing no less. “Some of the first years were missing,” he said. “Alexandra led the ones we had back to the common room, and I came to look for the missing ones since the teachers were all at work.” 

There was no respectful form of address, and Roswitha thought the empty space hung around a little bit after it hadn’t been said. 

Professor Snape dropped all pretext of professionalism and went to Roswitha wrapping his hands around her shoulders as he looked her up and down. “Are you well? Did it hurt you?”

“I’m alright, Father, I promise,” Roswitha said, a horrible weight settling over her heart. He was afraid — and if he was afraid, that meant she had been in very real danger just now. 

“You foolish child,” said Father as he pulled her in for a hug. “I could have _lost_ you, do you understand?” 

“Severus,” said Professor Dumbledore, softly. “I understand your distress, but I require you presently.” 

Stiffly, Father released her from his grasp, nudging her over toward Percy. “Straight to your dormitory, do you understand?” 

“Yes sir,” said Roswitha softly.

Professor McGonagall, who had also been fuming still, at last ran out of steam, and began to corral them together. “Well, then, I’ll take care of ye lot later. Back to the dormitories with ye.” 

“A moment,” said Professor Dumbledore. He did not turn to speak to Percy, but instead looked at Roswitha, meeting her eye. 

Something about the way his eyes twinkled made Roswitha’s head hurt, and so she squeezed her eyes shut. 

“Ah,” said Professor Dumbledore. “Verlanti’s Defense. Not the best choice, Miss Black, or at least one I was never fond of.”

Father, who now stood over the troll body, whipped around to glare at her again. “Roswitha Artemis Black!”

“What?!” she asked. “I really didn’t do anything wrong that time!” 

“Patience, Severus,” Dumbledore counseled, a small smile playing on his lips. “You and I will talk later, Miss Black. Off to the dorms with you now, children.” 

Two people took one each of Rowitha’s hands as they walked away. She did not open her eyes until they were several steps away, and the five of them did not speak until they were climbing to the common room door. 

“What happened just then?” Dean asked. “After the troll, I mean.”

“Professor Dumbledore legilimens’d me,” said Roswitha, with a frown. “And then critiqued my occlumency performance.”

“He didn’t!” Ron gasped. “He’s a teacher, he wouldn’t!” 

“What’s that?” Hermione asked. “Legilimens?”

“A legilimens is someone who can read minds,” said Percy sounding very weary. “And it isn’t illegal for someone to read another’s mind because so few people are ever born with the skill and even fewer can learn it. Here’s the Fat Lady —”

“Her name’s Benvegnuda,” said Roswitha, though she yawned when she had.

“Here’s Benvegnuda’s Portrait,” said Percy without complaint or even an eyeroll. “Let’s not talk about it right now. Except, Ros, are you okay?” 

Rowitha pondered for a moment as they paused outside the portrait. Then she nodded. “Yes, I think so, just a little headache.” 

Percy sighed. “I’ll get you a headache potion, for now, let’s just go and enjoy the rest of the feast.” 

A cheer rose up when they entered, but soon died down when everyone saw how weary they looked. The other prefects huddled up and fussed over all of them, and soon found they were fine, though tired now that they adrenaline had died and severely spooked. One had a headache potion on her which Roswitha downed, and another cast a cleaning and then a drying spell on Ron’s one foot. They bundled them all up and sat them with their friends.

“A toast!” said someone raising their goblet.

“And three cheers!” said someone else. 

Percy, resting on Oliver Wood’s shoulder, gave no protest and half heartedly raised his glass. The other first years raised them high and proud. 

As they lowered their cups, Ron turned to her and his eyes narrowed. “By the way,” he said. “When exactly were you going to tell us that Professor Snape is your stepfather?” 

Several people spat out what they were drinking, spraying the assemblage with spit and pumpkin juice. Despite all that had taken place that night, Roswitha couldn’t help but laugh. 


	9. Holiday Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Update! it sort of works out that I forgot the date, because chapter 8 is a little longer than most and chapter 9 is a little shorter. Make sure to go back and read 8 first!

Though Pappa was supposed to come for supper after the first Quidditch game, he came directly after the troll incident. Professor McGonagall pulled her from the Great Hall as Roswitha was entering for lunch, escorting her down to the dungeons where Father’s quarters were. Pappa was pacing around a small sitting room when Father let them in — McGonagall gave her leave almost immediately, while Pappa began in with, “A troll! Odin preserve me, Roswitha, what were you thinking?!” 

“That my friends were in danger,” said Roswitha quiet and honest. “And the professors were all gone, except Professor Quirrel who was on the floor, so the only person I could ask for help was a prefect, which I did. And it was a good thing we showed up when we did, because otherwise, Ron and Hermione might have gotten hurt.” 

Pappa huffed and took a seat on a worn sofa. “Frigg help me, that almost sounded logical.”

Father rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t logical at all! Roswitha, you are eleven-years-old! Even if there is no one else, you cannot be expected to roam into a dangerous situation — you cannot even if you are the only one who expects it.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do, then?” Roswitha asked, frustration welling up in her like a bubble in her throat. “The only alternative I can see is leaving them there alone without warning or help.”

“Another alternative would have been _all_ of you getting hurt,” said Father, his expression fierce and unyielding. “Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger did as they should in that situation, which was to hide. If they had remained hidden, help _would_ have come to them in a timely fashion. Do you have any idea how close you came to — to…” Father trailed off, seemingly unable to say what he had been thinking. 

Roswitha signed and ran her hands down her face. She sank to her knees in front of the sofa. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I was just trying to do what I thought was right. I couldn’t leave them to face it all alone, waiting for help to arrive or getting caught unawares.”

Father huffed at her explanation. “And what was this about you attempting occlumency? I thought I told you mind magic was off limits until you were older!”

Pappa turned back to her, raising his head from his hands. “Occlumency? Roswitha you might have been seriously hurt! What were you thinking?”

“It was just a book!” Roswitha protested, scoffing a little. “I read books all the time! I notice you’re not protesting the fact that Professor Dumbledore tried to read my mind without my permission!” 

“He was doing an honesty check, child,” said Father, frowning at her. “All the teachers know how to do them, and it’s hardly an invasive form of magic.” 

“I suppose that depends on who’s being invaded!” Roswitha protested. 

Pappa looked to Father, clasping their hands together. “What do we do now? We can’t just let it lie, can we?”

“No,” said Father shaking his head. 

“Why not?” Roswitha asked. 

Father looked up at her, his dark eyes sharp and oppressive. “Because, mind magic is a delicate form — you cannot simply leave it half done, it will adle you. And goodness knows_ I_ can’t teach you!” 

Roswitha wanted to know why and simultaneously, in that moment, she really didn’t care. There were things she wanted to ask, about occlumency and the philosophy of the situation, and what would they have done, and things she wanted to tell, like about Hogwarts speaking to her and their clubhouse and the quest and making Dean quartermaster to temper her authority. But in that moment, all Roswitha could imagine was getting yelled at some more, no matter what she said or asked. So she sat on the floor of the sitting room in Father’s apartment and said nothing, watching as her parents talked, but not really listening. After all, if they weren’t going to accept the idea of her helping her friends against a troll, they likely would not accept the idea of Hogwarts giving someone a quest. Not right now, at least.

“Do not pout,” Pappa said, breaking into her mind. 

“I’m not pouting,” Roswitha protested, softly. “Just thinking. Am I going to be punished then?” 

Father twitched a little. “That would depend on your head of house, and I believe Professor McGonagall has declined to punish you.”

“Well,” said Roswitha, shrugging a little bit. “You’re my parents, you can punish me if you want.” 

They shared a look for a moment before Pappa said, “Your father and I will need to discuss what punishment would be appropriate, if any. But please, darling heart, you must try to be more prudent. If we lost you… I don’t know that we would recover from it.”

Roswitha rose from her seat on the floor, climbed onto the couch and hugged her pappa. “Alright, Pappa. I’ll be prudent and careful from now on.” 

Pappa wrapped his arms around her, and Father moved closer to them as well. “See that you do, child,” said Father, taking one of her hands. “Remember us, if you think you need to help others. We will always come to your aid if we can.”

_If they could_ was rather the point of it all, Roswitha thought. Her parents wouldn’t always be able to help her, and there would be times she would have to help herself or help her friends. Roswitha kept mum on this opinion though, preferring not to fight anymore. 

When Pappa said his legs had begun to fall asleep, they all moved off into the adjoining dining room. Father summoned the castle elves to serve them an early family supper, and Pappa asked her questions about Quidditch and how she liked practice so far. Roswitha talked about practice and running and even teaching her friends to box. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell them about the quest, not now. Not after everything. At least, though, her parents preferred to have it all out in the open.

Professor Dumbledore, on the other hand, preferred to let her stew. 

\---

After Hallowe'en all of their free periods were spent in the library, researching in earnest in earnest -- nearly getting killed by a troll tended to put one's priorities in order. The priority tended to be making sure that Roswitha wouldn’t get killed going on her quest. Even if Hermione and Ron still had a few little spats here and there, nowadays if things got too bad, Dean made them separate from the group and go and talk about their feelings. As when they had enough research, they began to compile dangerous tasks that the teachers might set, and tried to figure out who might be setting the tasks.

They did a lot of their compiling and supposing in the clubhouse, and would occasionally find notes and suggestions from others in their year. After all, Roswitha had opened up the clubhouse to all members of their year, and while the Gryffindor firsts had made sure not to discuss the matter further outside of the clubhouse (especially since Percy Weasley was keeping an unnervingly close eye on them) they were less careful in the clubhouse. Everyone in their year already had a pretty good idea of what they were looking for in anycase, and no one had told the professors so far. 

Roswitha, though, spent the week after Hallowe'en in a state of nerves. She wondered if Professor Dumbledore had seen anything when he tried to read her mind? Did he want to talk about her occlumency or about the troll incident? Or did he know they were attempting to steal the Philosopher's stone (if that was what they were stealing)?

Professor Dumbledore let her overthink every possibility for a whole two weeks until he sent her a note asking her to come to his office during one of her free periods. Roswitha had a bad case of nerves all day -- she couldn't eat after she got the note, nor did she pay attention during Defense Against the Dark Arts (not that she could normally since something in Professor Quirrel's classroom gave her a bad headache).

At lunch, when Roswitha couldn't eat again, despite her year mates pushing food in her direction. At last when the hour arrived, Roswitha broke off from her classmates and followed Professor Dumbledore's directions to where his office was. When Roswitha spotted the stone gargoyle indicated in Professor Dumbledore's note, she announced herself, saying, "Hello, I'm here to meet with Professor Dumbledore -- my name is Roswitha Black. May I go up, please?"

The gargoyle took a moment to consider her request, then rolled aside to reveal a staircase.

"Thank you very much," said Roswitha, patting the gargoyle's head, which warmed to her touch.

The stairs were not very tall, and so Roswitha climbed them in no time, coming out on a landing where the only decoration was a closed door. She knocked and someone called, "Come in!"

The headmaster's office must have been in a tower for a large round room -- the walls had shelves stacked up ten feet tall and were covered in books and odd, silver instruments that moved in various ways, but did not seem to indicate what they were for. Above them were portraits, hung around the room, of former headmasters, most of whom were asleep. The floor itself was covered with rich rugs, a single wing back chair, a tall perch on which rested a large bird, the size of a condor with golden and red wings, and a desk at which Professor Dumbledore sat, writing something. 

Roswitha approached the desk and, still feeling quite nervous, curtsied before him.

Professor Dumbledore looked up at her and chuckled. "No need to be quite that formal, Miss Black. Please, have a seat."

Roswitha turned and found a chair had appeared in front of the desk where previously there had been none. "Thank you sir," she said, pulling up the chair.

Dumbledore cleared away what he had been writing and clicked his fingers making a tea tray appear on the desk in its place. "I apologize for taking so long to meet with you," he said, pouring out a cup of tea for her. "But something I needed took some time to order. How do you take your cup, Miss Black?"

"Two sugars and a little cream, please," said Roswitha.

"Shall honey suffice?" Professor Dumbledore asked.

"Oh, please," said Roswitha, nodding. "Professor Snape said I ought to try some of Hogwarts honey with tea."

Professor Dumbledore began to prepare her cup thusly. "Your _Father_ does have a fondness for the honey we produce here, I am not surprised to hear he made the recommendation to you. Oh, peace, my girl,” said Dumbledore when she flushed and began to explain herself. “Severus is my subordinate, of course he felt the need to tell me that his stepdaughter would be starting school this year. Likewise, I understand the compunction to keep his relationship with you a secret from your fellows — least they think he favored you especially.”

Roswitha nodded as she took the tea cup he offered out, wondering how Professor Dumbledore had so succinctly summarized the situation. “Yes sir, that’s just so,” she said, supposing, even as old as he was, Dumbledore must have been young once. 

“I thought as much,” he replied with a sly smile. “Now, I suppose you are wondering why I have called you here. I wished to ask you about the ingenious basket recovered from the girl’s bathroom.” 

Roswitha felt all the air press out of her like a flat tire. “Is that all, sir?” 

Professor Dumbledore leaned back, pressing into his overstuffed armchair. “Yes, for the moment.” 

Roswitha let out a sigh of relief. That was all? "It was an heirloom," she said, sipping her tea. Professor McGonagall had returned her basket the next day; Roswitha hadn’t realized they had looked through it. "I'm not sure who created it, but it is rather useful for keeping things fresh when you want to go on a picnic, or for when we were traveling here on the train.” 

Professor Dumbledore hummed in thought. “And why Verlanti’s Defense, Miss Black? Hardly the best choice, even under the circumstances.”

“The book I read,” said Roswitha, “_Occlumency for the Wary Beginner_, it said that Verlanti’s Defense was the simplest method to block someone out of your mind, as if they could not maintain eye contact, they could not invade your mind.” 

“Partially true,” said Professor Dumbledore, nodding. “But, it fails to consider that if someone has _already _invaded your mind, there is no further need for eye contact. Furthermore, it alerts the legilimens to the fact that you are aware they are trying to read your mind. Therefore, it also fails to consider that there are many ways a depraved mind or even a sound one may force your eyes open again.” 

“Oh,” said Roswitha, flushing and feeling very foolish. She had failed to consider those three points as well, but they seemed so obvious once Professor Dumbledore laid them out in front of her. 

Dumbledore smiled, kindly, at her. “Indeed.” He pulled a slim, leather bound volume from one of his desk drawers and passed it to her. “I’m afraid I had to delay our meeting until this arrived — apparently was a difficult volume to track down.”

Roswitha, a little wary of slim books since reading _A Witch’s Guide to Etiquette_, flipped through the book’s pages — it was no _Guide_ though and came in at under four hundred fifty pages. “Thank you, sir,” she said, closing it again. “Is it a gift?”

“Not as such,” said Professor Dumbledore. “I’ve discussed the matter with your parents, and they agree that given our prospects, I’m the best candidate to teach you occlumency. Normally, I would not attempt to teach this subject through a text at all, but I wish to correct what you may have previously learned reading. I will expect you to have it read by the end of your winter holidays, and we will set lessons every Friday morning once term resumes. Is that proposition agreeable to you?” 

Roswitha looked up from the book and nodded. “Yes, sir — I haven’t got anything on Friday mornings.” 

“Excellent! Now help yourself to a pastry -- I noticed you did not eat at lunch.” 

“Oh.” Roswitha took a pastry from the dish he offered out. “Well, it is always a little difficult to eat on Wednesdays anyway. Something in Professor Quirrel’s classroom always gives me a headache.”

“Does it now?” Professor Dumbledore asked drinking his own cup of tea. “Perhaps you ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey to have that sorted, my dear. And I will have a word to Professor Quirrel that he clean and air his classroom out. Mustn’t allow students to take ill every week after all.”

From there the visit became much more enjoyable. They finished their tea and snacks while Professor Dumbledore quizzed her on her classes so far and if everything was going well. Never once did he lead her in the direction of the philosopher’s stone. Roswitha thought he might, when toward the end of their meeting he said, “By the by, Miss Black -- about your clubhouse.”

“Yes sir?” Roswitha asked, trying not to sound shrill. 

Professor Dumbledore looked over his half-moon glasses at her. “It is nice to see a space for inter house cooperation. However, you and your year mates will still be held to the curfew standards as before and next time you have such an idea, perhaps ask for permission, before you need to ask forgiveness.”

Roswitha’s heart leapt. “Do we need to dismantle it, sir?”

“Not at present,” said Professor Dumbledore. He smiled at her, quite kindly and genuinely. “It was a very good idea, my dear, and it seems to have gone well in practice. But you can trust more adults than you think you can.” 

“I will bear that in mind, sir,” said Roswitha, unable to keep the smile off her face. 

“Now then, if we are done with our tea, I think you should go and talk to Madam Pomfrey about your headaches.”

“I have history of magic soon, sir.” Nonetheless, Roswitha replaced her tea cup on the tray and rose, smoothing out her clothing. 

Professor Dumbledore wrote her a pass. “You may be excused for today -- your health is more important than your studies, you know.”

Roswitha’s head did still ache a little, so she didn’t argue, said goodbye and went to go see Madam Pomfrey. 

Madam Pomfrey gave her a cold pack while she quizzed her on the headaches, and frowning, told her to drink more water, make sure she ate well, and write down when she got headaches for the next month, before dismissing her to take a nap. Roswitha wasn’t tried though, and so began an essay for Professor McGonagall as she waited for her friends to get back from history of magic. 

\---

November spurred on, getting colder, their class work getting more difficult (with the exception of Professor Quirrel’s class, which Roswitha found bothersome — for as many headaches as his class gave her, none were academic in nature. Professor Quirrell assigned them to read from the book and occasionally answer a quiz, but they never had to write essays for his class, or extrapolate from the material. Roswitha meant when she said to her parents that she would not go and seek out trouble, but as trouble had already sought her out, Roswitha wanted to be prepared. Quirrel’s class was doing anything _but_ preparing her), and their first Quidditch game in their second week, there was not much time to work on the heist. But whenever anyone found a spare minute in the club house, they would set to work. Roswitha did triple the work on the heist that anyone should, and rightfully so, as this was her quest. 

But when the first week of December had nearly gone, Percy Weasley entered their domain for the first time. When he appeared, they made as subtle effort as they could to cover up any heist plans with actual homework. Thankfully, Percy had a twin in each hand, dragging them by the sleeves of their robes, and a letter in his mouth he was trying to keep a firm grip of, so he did not notice their unsubtles.

“R’n,” said Percy around the parchment in his mouth. “C’m t’k th’s l’tt’r.” 

“Hallowe’en was weeks ago,” said Ron as he reached out to take the letter. “If you wanted to be an owl, Percy.” 

“Haha,” said Percy, rolling his eyes. “It’s a letter from Mum and Dad, but they wanted us to read it together.”

Ron, who had the letter all the way open and was finished scanning the first paragraph, looked up.

“Oh go on, Ron,” said George, waving at him with the hand not bound by Percy’s iron grip. “What’s it say?”

“They send their love,” said Ron, his eyes flitting back to the first part of the paragraph. “And… oh. They’re taking Ginny to go and visit Charlie and Romania over the winter hols. They’re asking that we stay at school.” 

All four Weasleys deflated in a spectacular fashion. 

“Blast,” Ron muttered, handing the letter over to Percy. “And we were going to see a film over break as well.” 

Roswitha took in the sorry scene before and spoke before her brain caught up to what she was saying, “If you’d like, I could always ask my parents if you can come and stay at Grimmauld Place. 

“We couldn’t impose,” said Percy, a frown on his face, but a hopeful glint in his eye. 

“Well, I don’t think it would be an imposition, mostly. The elves would certainly be over the moon, and we have the room.” Roswitha paused. “But I really will need to ask my parents, seeing as they live there too. And you need to ask yours for permission to stay with us.” 

Ron frowned. “It’ll be sort of weird to stay with a professor over holiday.” 

Percy, though, had flushed a little as she had continued offer. “You really don’t have to do that, Roswitha.” 

Roswitha shrugged. “I suppose I _am_ being selfish, to want my friends around for the holidays.” 

All four Weasleys rolled their eyes. “But Percy,” said Fred. “It couldn’t hurt, could it?”

“To ask Mum and Dad?” George added. 

Percy’s flush had lessened, though his frown hadn’t gone away. It seemed that while Hogwarts was a magical place, the thought of spending Christmas in London tempted Percy enough to turn it over in his mind. “You’re _sure_ it wouldn’t be a bother?” Percy asked. 

“Pretty sure,” said Roswitha, smiling. “But I’ll ask my parents if you ask yours.”

“C’mon Perce,” said Fred, freeing his arm to sling it around Percy’s shoulder. 

“Christmas in London!” said George, slinging his arm around Percy’s other shoulder. 

Percy rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright — I’ll write Mum and Dad, but Roswitha you have to be sure to ask your parents as well.” 

Roswitha began closing all her books and notebooks and stuffing them into her satchel. “I can go right now if you want.” And she had — Roswitha walked down to the dungeon as it was not quite curfew yet and knocked on the door of her Father’s private apartments. 

When Roswitha explained herself, Father simply ushered her in with a sigh, and floo called Grimmauld Place for Pappa to come through. 

“You realize,” said Pappa, as he stood, still in his protective dragonskin robes he wore to work, arms crossed over his chest, “that you are asking us to take on four extra children for the holidays?”

“Yes,” said Roswitha, patiently nodding. “To which you may absolutely say no.”

“Oh may we?” Father asked, rolling his eyes. 

“Certainly.” Roswitha rocked back and forth on her heels. “I wouldn’t beg you to have a responsibility you didn’t want. Only, time is something of the essence, as signups to stay over at Hogwarts will end next week, and the Weasleys need to write their parents and get a reply before then. Just in case.” 

Pappa chuckled, and even when Father shot him a look that said nothing about the present situation was funny, he still smiled. “Go back to your dorm, darling heart; it’ll be curfew soon I’m sure,” said Pappa. “Father and I will discuss it and give you an answer by tomorrow.” 

Roswitha nodded, turning to go, only to be met with protests by her parents. She turned, gave parting hugs and kisses, before actually leaving the apartment and walking back up to the Gryffindor dormitory. There, she reported to the Weasleys that she would have an answer by tomorrow. The Weasley brothers had spent all that time trying to compose a shared letter to their parents. The resulting parchment was covered in inkblots, but legible where the writing had fallen. 

The next morning dawned with a layer of freshly fallen snow, and a pure white snowy owl, with a short missive tied to his leg written in Pappa’s handwriting. _The owl’s name is Siegfried, since I know you will wonder. And yes, you may invite the Weasleys to stay with us for Christmas. All my love, Pappa_. 

Roswitha stroked Siegfried’s feathers for a bit and gave him one of Hedwig’s owl treats before sending him back with a short thank you note. The other girls in the dorm were awake by then as well, and they all had to give Siegfried a stroke or two as well. Hedwig looked very put out by the other owl, so Roswitha sent him off at last before going for her run.

“Well?” said Ron as they meet to go running on the third floor left corridor (the heavy drifts of snow did not make good running material). 

“They said yes,” Roswitha replied, shushing Ron when he let out a loud whoop. They might have been on the third floor (in a corridor where they were not likely to die a horrible death), but most of the castle _was_ still asleep.

The Weasleys received a letter back from their parents, indicating, yes, they may stay with the Blacks a few days later. So, the Friday the train left, every one of the Gryffindor first years (and the three elder Weasley brothers) were packed and ready to go on the Platform at Hogsmeade station. 

The trip down was much the same as the trip up had been only this time Roswitha knew what to expect and so had taken a long run the morning of the trip and made sure to have things to do (like reading her occlumency text) at the ready. Somehow, though, the trip seemed much quicker -- perhaps because they had left Hogwarts a good deal earlier than they had left London in September. 

In the hour before the train came into the station, they had one more meeting of Pride 98 where they promised to look at whatever texts they could get their hands on that might help. Fay said that her older brother was at Oxford and she could see if there library had anything else on Nicholas Flamel, while Dean promised to watch as many heist films as he could to get information on how they could go about one. And, they all made sure they would be in London to meet up for the screening of _Beauty and the Beast _Hermione’s parents had gotten them tickets to. 

When the train docked, Roswitha said a final goodbye to the others as she and Ron waited for his brothers to appear. Percy came ‘round to their compartment in short order, but they had to wait several more minutes for Fred and George to part from Lee’s company and join them

“What does your father look like, Roswitha?” Percy asked as they disembarked the train. 

“Like me, but a taller,” said Roswitha as she scanned the crowd. 

Fred tugged on a lock of her hair. “It’s nice to know these flowing locks run in the family.” 

“Well, they most certainly do,” said Roswitha, flicking her hair over her shoulder opposite Fred. When she felt a weight on that shoulder she turned and found Draco, leaning against her, yawning. “Draco! Honestly, it’s two in the afternoon.”

“The train made me tired,” he mumbled. “And my parents will find yours, and then they’ll find us.”

Roswitha looked up to plead for help. Fred and George were snickering, and even Ron and Percy looked a little amused at her predicament. Roswitha suddenly regretted the decision to be around boys for the entire winter holiday. Sure enough, though, Draco had been right, as Lucius and Pappa approached them only a few minutes later, Pappa snickering as well. 

Draco cracked an eye in his father’s direction, holding out his arms. “Carry me.” 

Lucius raised an elegant brow. “I would sooner leave you here to die.” 

Draco raised himself from Roswitha’s shoulder and shrugged. “Well, if that’s the only other option.” He looked at the ground, as if briefly considered laying down to die, but at seeing the dirt and dust on the platform, stood up straight and went off with his father. 

“We’ll see you for New Years?” Pappa asked, smiling tightly in Lucius’ general direction. 

“Naturally,” Lucius replied. “Children, Regulus, good day.” 

“Good day,” Roswitha and Pappa said together. The Weasleys all mumbled the same, loathe to exchange pleasantries with a Malfoy (and to be called children as well). 

“Right then,” said Pappa turning toward them. “I’m afraid we’re in for a bit of a walk, as I can’t apparate with all of you.” He squinted at Roswitha. “Is that my hat? I’ve been looking for that everywhere!” 

Roswitha snorted and made no move to take it off. “You left it on the train in September. But I’ve taken good care of it since then.” 

Pappa only rolled his eyes. “Come along then.” 

Together they dodged through the crowd dissipating from Platform 9 ¾ and made their way out into Charing Cross Station (pausing only to add a set of wheels to each of the trunks, so they might more easily transport them). Roswitha knew the way the best, so Pappa put her up front with Ron, and he transitioned himself to the back of the pack to walk with Percy. 

“How far is it?”

“Only about a mile,” said Roswitha. 

“Oh, well, that’s easy,” said Ron, nodding. “We walk that sort of distance all the time at home. I thought we were going to have to cross all of London.”

Roswitha shook her head. “If that were the case, I definitely would have made Pappa take the Tube.”

“Muggles travel through tubes?” Ron asked, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t you get stuck?”

“No,” said Roswitha shaking her head. “It’s, uh, what do you call them? An idiom — there’s an underground railway system that goes all across the city. The trains _look_ like giant tubes, though, so that’s what it’s called sometime. Other people call it the underground or the metro or just the train.” 

“If it’s just a train why doesn’t your father like to ride it?” Ron asked. 

Roswitha shrugged. “He doesn’t like crowds, I think. And there aren’t really compartments on the trains inside the city. I know Father has a set of very keen senses so large groups overwhelm him too.” 

From the back of their group, Pappa called, “You’re getting a little ahead, you two.” 

They both turned back and found that twenty feet or more separate them and the others, and paused to wait for everyone to catch up. The rest of the walk home was chilly, but nice, as they had forgone their morning run in order to get breakfast and make it to Hogsmead platform on time. They arrived at a quarter to three, shaking off a little bit of snow fall from their cloaks and hair, as Pappa called for the elves. 

“Little Mistress is home,” they cheered as they embraced her. 

“I missed all of you too,” said Roswitha, giggling as she hugged them back. 

“And where is the young masters to be staying?” Kreacher inquired, looking between Roswitha and Regulus. 

“Ron can have the apple room next to me,” said Roswitha without hesitation. “Fred and George in the cerulean room, and Percy in the lime room.” 

“How come we don’t get a food room?” Fred asked, sticking his tongue out at her. 

“Because the cerulean room has two beds,” said Roswitha, shrugging. 

“Oh,” said Fred. 

“Alright then,” said Pappa, drawing their attention to him. “Now, I know you are four young wizards in possession of wands, so I will not discourage you from using magic while you are here. However, anything — spells, potions, runes, whatever — that isn’t listed in your textbooks, I ask that you only do with me around. I don’t have to be in the same room, but in the house at the very least. And you will have to ask Severus’ permission to use the lab while he is brewing, understood?”

Fred’s and George’s faces lit up. “You have a potions lab, Mr. Black?” 

“In the garden,” said Pappa, trying his best to level a stern look at them. “But see above. Are we agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” said Ron, his brothers echoing him. 

“My darling heart, why don’t you show your guests around the house,” said Pappa smiling again. “And I’ll have Bits start on tea.” 

Roswitha started the tour showing them the ground level, having to stop suddenly when they came upon the conservatory. 

“This _has_ to be against the statute of secrecy,” said Percy, eyes agog as he looked around. 

Roswitha wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so,” she said. “It doesn’t show out on the street you see. Besides, Cousin Andromeda’s a barrister, she would have checked to see if it was breaking any laws. We can go swimming later, if you want, but I should really show you the rest of the house first.” 

That drew Percy’s gaze on her quite seriously. “Er, by the by, Roswitha — is there anything in this house that we should know about? Places we shouldn’t go.” 

“Well…” Roswitha thought about it. “The House Elves have a nest in the cellar, my parent’s bedroom probably, and the potions lab, without supervision, obviously.” 

“He means any place that’s dangerous,” George piped up from where he was picking an orange from one of the fruit trees. 

Roswitha frowned and thought about it for a moment. “Well, the attic maybe. But that’s our store room, so really the biggest danger you have there is getting lost. C’mon, I’ll show you the first floor.” She walked out of the conservatory confidently, expecting the boys to follow her. 

It took a moment, but she heard their footsteps following her out of the room toward the stairs. They followed her throughout the house, canvassing each level one step behind her. Percy quit complaining about the Statute of Secrecy when he saw the library. After that, of course, the twins began to tease him, so Roswitha sped up her tour, only pointing out her parents’ room and the guest rooms before she lead them up to the playroom where Bits had laid out tea and snacks for them. The four of them sat around the tea table, eating and drinking, even after Fred pulled down one of the board games, and they began to play. They played on until Pappa came to fetch them for supper. 

Father already sat in the family solar, and he almost looked a little weary when Roswitha greeted him with a smile. “Did Professor Sinistra give you any grief?” she asked. Professor Sinistra had volunteered to cover Father’s head of house duties while he was away. Roswitha took the seat next to Father who sat at the end of the table. She motioned to Ron to come and sit next to her on her other side, and he did. The other Weasley boys sat on the other side of the table, Percy closest to Father, George in the middle and Fred next to Pappa, who sat at the table’s head. 

Father raised an eyebrow at her question, focusing on her alone as they all found their seats. A plate of roast lamb, sliced neatly onto a platter, appeared on the table, with sauces and vegetables to accompany it, and still Father did not divert his gaze.

Roswtha matched his serious expression by raising her own eyebrow — then she would lower it and raise the other, determined to break his expression. She did, just as Pappa opened a bottle of wine, and Father snorted as he speared a piece of lamb with his fork. “I don’t think I will be discussing work, child,” he said, placing the cut of lamb on her plate. He then turned to the Weasley boys. “Help yourselves children.” 

The boys, who had thus far been so still they might have been frozen, slowly, creakily, as if their joints needed oiling, began to move. They took from the bowls and platters what they wanted or passed it along if it was of no interest to them. 

“Did you all have a good end of term?” Pappa asked, as he delivered a glass of wine to Father, before returning to his seat. 

“It was alright,” said Ron, after a moment, when no one else spoke. “I thought Hermione was going to carve the address of the film theatre into my arm, though. I think going home with Ros was the only thing that saved me.”

Father looked as if he was about to say something, perhaps like, “Do you often need to carve something into your skin to remember it?” or “Anything on your skin, including scars cannot be used on exams,” but Pappa fixed him a very stern look. 

“Well,” said Pappa as Father took a drink of wine, “I’m glad we saved you the trouble. And you boys? Anything exciting over term?”

“We did win the first Quidditch match,” George reported. 

“Though you’ll regret to hear it,” Fred added in tandem. 

“And Roswitha has been teaching me to box,” said Ron. 

“Is she?” Father asked, cutting up a slice of lamb. “I wonder what your teacher would think of that, child?” 

“Who, Annie?” said Roswitha, as she cut up her own meat. “She’d probably think it fine. I have been boxing for nearly three years now, Father, I know form well enough to teach it to others.” 

Father snorted. “I’ve been teaching you to brew nearly as long. Could you teach someone else the same?”

“I could teach them what I know,” said Roswitha, taking a bite of her lamb. “And I know proper boxing form well enough to teach it. It might be several more years before I know enough about potions to teach the proper starting form in brewing.”

The rest of the supper proceeded similarly — Pappa would ask questions to all of them, trying his best to engage the Weasley boys and Roswitha too, Father occasionally adding to the conversation (and perhaps being a little delighted as the twins and Percy would still freeze when he spoke to them). When they finished eating, the children all trooped upstairs to finish their game of Monopoly. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Ron remarked, as they settled in at the game table. “I expected him to be more like he is in class.” 

Roswitha only shrugged. “Everyone relaxes sometime I suppose. Who went last?” 

They played for several more hours until Pappa came up again to tell them all to go to sleep. They game still had not finished, but they went anyway. Roswitha had a bath and then settled in to read until she fell asleep. 


	10. The Four Houses Unite

The next morning, Roswitha rose early and poked Ron until he sighed, muttering, “Alright, alright, I’m getting up.” She went and changed into exercise clothes and they met on the landing to go running out in London. They were delighted to find that snow had continued to fall, and so the streets were not icy or overworked, but had a powdery crunch to their run. They stopped, on their way back to Grimmauld Place, at the park across the street to do their morning calisthenics. At last, they loped into Grimmauld Place to find the other Weasley brothers seated in the solar for breakfast. 

Roswitha flopped down next to Fred, watching as he scrunched up his nose. “You’re sweaty and gross.” 

“You managed to accomplish that without going for a run,” she said, raising an eyebrow as she poured herself a cup of tea. 

Fred turned red, but he couldn’t help snort in laughter. He opened his mouth, but at that moment, Pappa entered the room in his dressing gown. Pappa squinted at the situation, mutter, “Ah,” and then zeroed in on her. “Roswitha, you know you’re supposed to wash before breakfast if you go running. You too, please, Ron.” 

Roswitha downed her cup of tea, before saying, “Yes, Pappa.” 

“Yes, Mr. Black,” said Ron as he stood. 

When they had washed and changed they returned to find Pappa and Father both dressed and seated at the table, looking far more awake than Pappa had before. 

“So, what were you children planning on doing today?” Father asked, when Roswitha and Ron had prepared their plates. 

“I thought I could show the boys around the neighborhood,” said Roswitha, shrugging. 

Father smirked at her. “What, not keen to write your essays on the first day of vacation?”

“We worked on them on the train,” said Ron, casually, as he sliced a particularly thick slice of bacon. 

Father’s smirk dropped, and Fred and George grew identical looks of disappointment. “Already?” George asked. 

“It’s not like we _finished _them,” said Ron. “We just started. Do we have to be done before we go exploring?” 

At the last question, all children present looked toward the adults at the table. Father and Pappa shared a wordless conversation from across the table, and Roswitha suddenly wondered if they were reading each other’s minds. After a moment they came away and Pappa announced, “No, you do not have to have them done before you would go exploring. However, as Severus and I are not really capable of handling last minute meltdowns, we would ask that you work on them every day at least a little.” 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Black,” said Fred.

“If we didn’t get something done we wouldn’t panic,” said George, nodding in time with his twin. 

“We just wouldn’t turn it in,” they chimed together. Then they turned to Father to gage his response to such a resolute stance. 

Father, in the middle of chewing, waited several moments until he swallowed. At last, he said, “As long as you do _my_ essay, we’ll have no quarrel. I don’t care about the others.” 

“Severus!” said Pappa, letting his cutlery clatter down. “I’m telling Albus you said that.”

“Why would Albus care about their essays?” Father asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “He doesn’t mark them.” 

Pappa sat back in his chair and assessed the situation. “I’ll tell Minerva then,” he said after a moment’s consideration. 

Father considered the threat. Then he turned to the twins, saying, “Do your transfiguration essay too.” 

Roswitha snorted, but held in a laugh. The others giggled as well, barely holding themselves together. 

Pappa nodded slowly at this reply. “Children,” he said. “Why don’t you have Bits wrap the rest of breakfast up and go out and enjoy London?” 

Roswitha picked up her plate and raced from the room, all four boys quickly following after her. 

“Have you ever actually seen them fight?” Fred asked, as he sat down so hard on Roswitha’s bed he bounced up slightly. George plopped next to him to the same affect. 

Roswitha shook her head. “No, they keep all that sort of stuff private, and they use the muffling charm if things are going to get really heated.” Roswitha and Ron began to eat at her desk, finishing off their breakfast plates. 

“I wish _we _never had to hear our parents argue,” Percy muttered, taking a seat by the window. Freyr trailed him and settled in his lap as soon as Percy was seated. 

“Here here,” Fred, George and Ron replied. 

“Can the cats have bacon?” Ron asked as Freyja practically began climbing his leg. 

“One shouldn’t hurt her,” said Roswitha. “They really like egg yolks, though.” 

They tried to finish eating as quickly as they could, then bundled up into warm clothes before hitting the streets. 

The day out with the Weasleys was fun -- Roswitha had grown used to having others around, and so if they had not come, she imagined it would have been rather lonely. She showed them around all her usual haunts -- book and record stores and consignment shops that had clothes from yesteryear. The Weasleys delighted in this, especially when they learned the exchange rate from Galleons to pounds, and that Roswitha could do the conversions in her head. 

“If this book is £2.50, how much is that?” Percy whispered to her, holding _A Brief History of Time_. 

“Ten sickles and fourteen knuts,” Roswitha whispered back before they exchanged the currency. 

The twins found a set of records they liked, and a broken turntable they were fairly sure (with Roswitha’s help) they could get working again. Ron found a wool coat he really liked at a consignment shop, big enough for even him to grow into, dyed a royal blue color. Even with the conversions though, he couldn’t quite make up the difference, so Ron only sighed and put it back, selecting instead a pair of shades he and Roswitha had been looking at, Roswitha getting the second pair. 

“I think I saw something I want to look at,” said Roswitha, when they were ready. She passed Ron some money to pay for the sunglasses. “I’ll meet you up front in a little bit?” 

“‘Kay,” said Ron. 

Roswitha, when she was sure he wasn’t looking, snatched the coat from the rack and flagged down an attendant in the shop. The man, who looked quite weary at being approached by an eleven-year-old with a conspiratorial look, perked up at her idea, especially when she gave him the ten pounds to cover the coat. They agreed that she would come back the next day to get the coat or forfeit her ten pounds. 

Then Roswitha met Ron up at the front, smiling bright as they left the shop, wearing matching sunglasses. 

On other days, they visited the museums and places still on Roswitha’s list of things to do and see around London that she let the boys look at and pick from. Sometimes they would do a repeat, as the boys had no idea what an aquarium was (guesses included a place to house people born under the sign aquarius and a fish market), and sometimes her parents would join them. Much to their consternation, Roswitha insisted that they take public transit when they did. 

“We cannot get a cab for this many people,” she said rather practically. “And you hate the Knight Bus more than you hate the underground, I’ve heard you say so.” 

Both of them grimaced (perhaps at the thought of the Knight Bus, perhaps at the thought of actually taking public transportation, who knew) but agreed. “One of us is getting a driving license,” said Pappa more than once. 

Still, whenever they went to any of the museums, all the wizarding born — adults and children alike — would marvel at the sights to see, whether they saw sea turtles or wax figures. 

It was Fred and George who spotted the vendor selling trees two days before Christmas. The ones left weren’t extraordinary by any means, but there was one that would fit nicely in the sitting room, and so they bought it and took it home. Kreacher dug up some ornaments from the attic and they spent the afternoon trimming the tree. Roswitha got the idea to sneak down that night and put her gifts to Ron, the twins, and Percy under the tree (since she had already sent off all her other gifts to her other friends and Draco) before reading a while. 

She encountered Percy, reading by the fire again, as she placed her gifts underneath the tree. Once her presents were safely ensconced under the tree, Roswitha held up her own book, saying, “Mind if I join you?” 

Percy shook his head, and they read companionably until the clock struck half nine, and they both went off to bed. Ron slipped into her room when she had doused the lights and curled up next to her. 

“I miss my mum and dad,” Ron admitted, when they had lain in the dark, quiet, for some time. “It’s my first Christmas without them. Letters just aren’t the same.” 

“I know what you mean,” Roswitha murmured, for she did, having gone a long time missing people she had never even met. 

They fell asleep next to one another, talking quietly about their fears and wants, until they simply didn’t anymore. Roswitha slept well and woke, for once, to Ron shaking her awake. 

Sitting back on his haunches with a grin, Ron said, “Happy Christmas, Ros.” 

“Happy Christmas, Ron!” she replied sitting up. 

They made their way down to the second floor where Roswitha sent Ron on to the family sitting room and instead made a detour to her parents' room. She entered the room on soft feet, willing the door hinges not to squeak. Roswitha slipped inside, pretending to be a spy, as she padded to the end of the bed. She bent her knees and prepared to jump —

“If you jump on this bed,” Father muttered, burrowed deep beneath their down blanket. “You may not live to regret it.” 

Roswitha snorted, and climbed into the bed, slowly, gently, and settled in between the two of them. “Happy Christmas,” she said. 

“I don’t suppose we could bribe you,” Pappa murmured, as he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, “to let us sleep for another hour.” 

Roswitha hummed. “I suppose so,” she said. “And I’ll just have to open my gifts without you watching.” 

Both sets of eyes popped open and glowered at her. As they had missed the first nine years of her life, her parents had been eager to make as many memories as they could. Father, loathe of any sort of sentimentality, had even allowed himself into family portraits for two years now. Pappa even skived off work to spend time with her (perhaps it was not called skiving when you informed your workplace in advance that you would not be around some days, but Pappa did it at random, so Roswitha liked to think of it as skiving). It was, perhaps, a low blow. But there _would _only be so many more Christmases where she wanted to get up and open presents at half six in the morning, of that she was certain so neither was she wrong. 

Father huffed, saying, “Out with you. We’ll be along in ten minutes.” 

Humming a merry tune, Roswitha scooted off the bed and out of the room. The Weasley boys had restrained themselves from opening anything, though Roswitha found Fred and George arranging presents into piles when she entered the sitting room. Bits had laid out a spread for a sort of first breakfast on the coffee table (the coffee table was not very large, so their offerings were tea, coffee, juice, scones, jam, clotted cream, some sausages, and fruit), and Roswitha set to work making a cup of tea and coffee to her parents’ liking. 

They entered after exactly ten minutes, wearing dressing gowns over pajamas and slippers over bare feet, and ensconced themselves on the loveseat. When Roswitha had handed over their drinks, and both Father and Pappa had allowed a moment of anticipation to build, Father waved his hand saying, “Yes, yes, you may commence.” 

Wrapping paper flew through the air as all five of them tore into their gifts. Ron and Roswitha had the largest piles, because the pride had agreed to send ten of the same small gifts. They must have been on the same wavelength, because it seemed each of them had sent a tin of food. Ron had packed everyone chocolate frogs, with extra rare cards from his collection (the ones he had more than one of). Sophie had sent bars of halva she had made with her mum, Fay had packed lemon bars, Dean had sent caramels, Seamus homemade pumpkin pasties, Hermione cheese twists, Neville had provided a small tin of Turkish delight, Parvati a dish of balushahi, Lavender a box of biscotti, and Roswitha had given everyone meat pies. 

When they had finished opening their friends’ gifts, then closing them and laying them to the side, Ron held up a second box whereupon was scrawled, “To Ron, From Roswitha.” “Two presents?” he asked, showing it to her.

Roswitha held up a second box in her pile from him and raised an eyebrow. “Two from you too.”

Fred and George, who had run out of presents to open, shouted, “Oh, just open them already!” 

Ron tore into his and held up the blue coat with a flushed grin. Roswitha’s, though, was something that she had not expected as she peeled back the paper around the box. Opening it up, Roswitha found a stuffed bear with a new red ribbon. The bear had been well loved but well maintained too. Roswitha hugged it close to her chest. “I love it, Ron, thank you so much.” 

Ron’s flush darkened just ever so. “I saw you didn’t have any, and well, we’re not too old for bears, I reckon.” 

“We have got to get some more friends,” Fred muttered, watching them take their time over their gifts. 

Roswitha giggled and passed him the bear. “You can hold Ursa for now, as long as you promise not to turn her into a spider.” 

Fred rolled his eyes, but took the bear to hold on to. 

There was a lumpy gift which turned out to be a jumper in a lovely green wool which fit her perfectly. Fred and George had a pair, she realized as she pulled hers on, done up in a sunflower yellow with the initials F & G on their respective sweaters done in navy yarn. Ron had a matching one, too Roswitha noticed, though his was maroon. 

“Mine is always maroon,” said Ron as he pulled his on. 

“What’s wrong with maroon?” Percy asked as he, too, pulled on a sweater made from a turquoise blue yarn. 

“It just makes me look more red,” said Ron. “That’s all. Did Mum send you Weasley sweaters as well, Mr. Black, Professor Snape?” 

Roswitha turned and found her parents did have sweaters in their laps. Pappa’s was a dove grey that brought out his eyes, and Father’s was a green a shade or two darker than Roswitha’s own. “Those are lovely,” said Roswitha, smiling. “How nice your mum is. I can’t knit a stitch.” 

Roswitha and Ron had presents still, these ones from their family. Roswitha rolled her eyes when she saw Draco, very indiscreetly, had sent her a book about Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel’s work on alchemy. The Tonkses had gifted her with one book each out of the Lord of the Rings Trilogy (each volume with a different kind of cover). Narcissa had sent a set of hair brush, comb and pins. Lucius, as usual, had sent her French chocolates. Father had gifted her a pair of sensible, but good looking boots. “You will likely need to wear two pairs of socks until your feet grow a little more,” he said when she gave him a thank you kiss. He looked down to the box which had appeared in his lap with Fred and George’s help, saying, “If this is another typewriter, Roswitha, you are grounded.” 

“I suppose I’m grounded then,” said Roswitha as she went to open her final gift from Pappa. 

“Where on earth do you keep finding them, even?” Father asked as he unwrapped the box. “That’s five typewriters — I mean it this time, child, I don’t want another one.” 

“They just look so handsome on the shelf in your office,” said Roswitha innocently. “Besides you get me a puzzle every year, it’s only fair.” To prove her point, she held up a box advertising a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle.

Pappa’s gift came in a small box, and when she first opened it, Roswitha had no idea what she was looking at. The box held a small sphere, not made up of a solid piece of material, but several, silver interlocking rings. 

“Oh, it’s an armillary sphere,” said Percy, peering closer to admire it. 

“Indeed it is,” said Pappa, smiling slyly. “Gently, if you will, darling heart, try to fold the rings flat.” 

Roswitha did, pressing the rings down with her fingers until they folded down to appear as a cohesive band. “Pappa, it’s beautiful!” said Roswitha. She slipped it on her left index finger, before surging forward to give him a hug. 

Pappa kissed her cheek with a gentle chuckle. “You’re welcome, my darling heart. Now, you will surrender that to Professor Sinistra before any of your exams, but I show you how to use it all the same. Now I believe presents are done, so if you wish to take your things to your rooms, I believe there is snow to be played in.”

None of them had to be told twice. Presents stowed away, they all wrapped up warm and headed to the park across the street to build forts and throw snowballs at one another. Their play drew out all the other children of the neighborhood, and even parents who would play in the snow with them, or watch, mugs full of hot drinks in their hands, from the stoops. When lunch came to call, the Weasleys and Roswitha bundled inside for cheese toasties and hot soup, then slunk off, drowsy and warmed from the inside out, to take naps before their Christmas supper. 

Roswitha woke a while before summer though, and went to go give Father the real gift she had held back from him. She found her parents, as she still did sometimes, sitting on the steps, just talking. 

“I do have another gift for you,” Father said, and Roswitha ducked out from view, as there would probably be kisses next. 

Pappa clucked his tongue. “Severus you really didn’t—” He cut off all at once, almost like someone had cast a silencing charm on him. Father might have if he wanted to make a point, so Roswitha peeked again. 

Father held an open ring box in his hand, and Pappa looked quite starstruck at the sight of it. “We joke,” said Father, “about living in sin and not wanting Narcissa to plan our wedding. But, I… recent conversations about children and everything have illuminated to me that I love you, most ardently, Regulus. And I don’t want to live without you if I have to. Will you marry me?”

Pappa did not answer straight away, instead surging forward and kissing father quite soundly. Roswitha bore this, waiting for the moment when they pulled apart and Pappa said, “Yes, yes, I will marry you, Severus.” Then they began kissing quite in earnest, and so Roswitha rolled her eyes and turned away. She would have to give Father his gift another time then. 

\---

A few days later, Roswitha spent part of the morning preparing snacks and turkey sandwiches with Father and Bits and tucking them away in her enchanted basket. Then she spent the next part of it assuring her parents that they wouldn’t get lost on the underground on their way to see the movie that Hermione’s parents had arranged for them. 

When they arrived at the theater, Hermione flagged them down where she was standing with a large group of their friends. “You didn’t lose any of them!” said Hermione.

“Hush!” Roswitha commanded, dropping her voice to say, “If you say that my parents will never ride the tube again.” 

Pappa pinched her, as he did when he felt she was being rude, and Pappa quite pointedly rolled his eyes as they began to introduce themselves to the other parents who they did not know. When introductions were made, Helen and Manny passed out tickets to the show and they all entered in an orderly fashion (well, as orderly as one could get with thirteen persons under sixteen and as many adults besides). 

“I’ve been waiting on this one,” said Fay as they slid into their seats, “ever since they announced that they were doing it. Did you see _The Little Mermaid_?” She asked this more to Hermione and Roswitha who had some connection to the muggle world.

While Roswitha and Hermione both answered yes, but the others were left wanting, some had never even heard of the fairytale before. When Fay explained the story, Ron asked, “Hang on, does that mean we have different bedtime stories? Did you all read Babbity-Rabbity when you were little?”

Sophie had not, but she had been raised with stories from Turkey. Neither had Dean or the other muggle born or muggle raised children. Seamus’ Da leaned forward telling them to keep their voices down when they were in the theater, least someone not in the know overheard them. They didn’t have much longer to talk though, as the lights dimmed and the reel began projecting on the screen in front of them. 

Ron leaned over to her, “It’s like a painting, but it just goes on!”

“Yes,” said Roswitha in a low tone. 

When it had gone well and truly dark in the room and everyone was focused on the screen, Roswitha began to pass out snacks from her enchanted basket. They munched happily as they watched the valiant Belle save her father from the Beast, and as she began to save the Beast from himself. Roswitha saw what Fay’s anticipation had been about, as the story wove on in beautiful song, and they were all on the edge of their seats as Beast fought the dastardly Gaston, and then found himself mortally wounded. 

“No, no, no,” Sophie whispered.

“C’mon, get up,” said Seamus to the screen. 

"You came back!" the Beast said, through ragged breath.

"Of course I came back! I couldn't let them..." Belle looked to be near tears as she embraced the beast. "Oh this is all my fault. If only I'd gotten here soon."

"Maybe, maybe it's better this way."

"Don't talk like that! You'll be alright... We're together now! Everything's going to be fine. You'll see."

"At least," said the Beast as he pressed his paw to her face, "I got to see you... one last time." The Beast's eyes rolled back as he collapsed to the ground.

"No... No! Please don't leave me." Belle pressed her face into his chest, whispering, "I love you." 

The last petal fell from the rose...and then the music began to swell as the Beast lifted off of the ground, exuding light as his body transformed. He rose from the ground but this time human!

"YAY!" Neville cried rising from his seat, only to be shushed by the people in front of them. Neville collapsed into is seat, flushed, as the final moments of the movie began to play out. 

Roswitha enjoyed the movie, especially watching as the castle turned back from dull and dark to shinning and new again. It reminded her of Menaçant quite a lot as she had taken a love for her home and transformed it into something else, something bright and new. 

When the movie finished they adjourned to a nearby park where they laid out blankets, enchanted to stay warm on the cold, though snow free ground. Roswitha shared out Turkey sandwiches and the other families shared treats they had brought as well, the adults making their own merriment alone, pretty much leaving the children to themselves, which suited them just fine.

After finishing his turkey sandwich, Neville asked her, “Is your family going by the ministry when you go home?” 

Roswitha’s brow furrowed. “I’m not actually sure where the ministry is.” 

Neville rattled off directions from the theatre to the ministry where he was supposed to meet his uncle, Algie to floo home. Or, if Algie failed to collect him, just floo home by himself. 

“Why wouldn’t he collect you?” Dean asked. 

Neville shrugged. “He might be working, is all.” 

Lavender frowned. “He’s your _uncle_, he should come to get you. You should come home with one of us, Neville, and then you can floo over to the ministry.”

Neville considered this for a moment. “I s'pose, as long as I get to him it shouldn’t matter how I did the getting.” 

Lavender, Parvati and Roswitha accompanied Neville over to where the adults were sitting only to find that of all the families who lived in London, the Blacks were the only ones who had a floo. All the adults agreed, however, that they wouldn’t simply allow Neville to wander London on his own, and so he was to go with Roswitha and her group and floo from 

That settled, they all grew quiet. Roswitha could tell that they were all dying to discuss heist plans, but with Fred, George and Percy sitting with them, and the adults so close by it wasn’t a good idea. When they finished their picnic, and as the winter sun began to droop in the sky, the parents or guardians collected the present children and began to depart. 

Roswitha and her family walked to the nearest underground station, accompanied by the Weasleys, Neville, Dean and Maj. Thomas. Maj. Thomas attempted to explain that they really had nothing to fear from the metro, and Pappa nodded along politely, while Father appeared to count the number of children several times, as if wondering how they had acquired an extra. 

“Captain, you don’t live in a cursed house like they had in the movie, do you?” Dean asked as they walked. 

Roswitha shook her head. “No — it was a bit gloomy when I first came there, but now it’s first rate. You should come swimming some time, Q.” 

Maj. Thomas shook Dean a little via their connected hands. “You haven’t become a spy while I wasn’t looking, have you?” 

Father looked up from his counting. “And I thought I advised you to make your friends stop calling you ‘captain,’ Roswitha.” 

Roswitha only shrugged. “I did say I didn’t think they would stop even if I asked.”

“But she didn’t want all the power,” Dean added, solemnly. “So, she nominated me as quartermaster, and everyone voted on it.”

“Why quartermaster?” Pappa asked, his brow furrowed. 

“Because Hermione likes pirates,” Ron chimed in. 

Maj. Thomas laughed as they came to the metro station. “Well, makes sense to me. Cheers then, we’re on this line here.”

When they returned home, Pappa flooed the ministry to get in touch with Neville’s uncle while Fred and George convinced Father to take them into the potions lab for a time. Percy followed Ron, Roswitha and Neville up to the playroom, but read a book as they play a round of exploding snap between the three of them. They didn’t really notice how much time has passed until Pappa came to collect them for supper. “Do you want to stay for supper, Neville?” Pappa asked, a kind smile resting on his face. 

“I…” Neville faltered. “I wouldn’t want to impose, Mr. Black.” 

“It’s not an imposition if there’s an invitation,” said Pappa, again, quite kind. 

“Then, yes, sir, I’d like that very much.” Neville even managed a small smile as he spoke. 

Supper was a nice affair where Father and the twins argued over the properties of potions, and Roswitha had Neville and Ron for company while Percy talked to Pappa about future career aspects. When the supper had concluded, they said goodbye to Neville as Pappa and Father went with him to talk to Madam Longbottom about something. 

Something about the whole incident irked Roswitha, though, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It must have irked Ron, too, however, for when they went to her room to dedicate a little time to the writing of essays, Ron asked, “Do you reckon Neville’s alright?” 

“I dunno,” said Roswitha, honestly, looking up from _A History of Magic_. “I hope so.”

Ron nodded too, but didn’t turn back to his text. “It’s just, my mum and dad, they let us wander pretty far a field,” said Ron, with a frown. “But we live out in the country, you know. They’d never let us go off in the city by ourselves. Without them, maybe, if Bill or Charlie were there to mind us.” 

Roswitha nodded. Her parents did let her wander around London, but only when they knew where she was going, and because she knew how to navigate the city better than they did. She would feel a little odd in a place like Paris or some such wandering around on her own, and she thought Pappa and Father might not allow it. They certainly wouldn’t send her out into an environment she didn’t know with little more than directions on how to get somewhere. “We shouldn’t assume,” Roswitha said at last, though a frown had overtaken her in her thoughts. “It might have been a misunderstanding. After all, when Madam Longbottom brought up Neville’s dad it was the seventies and things weren’t as bad then, Father said so. Let’s just…” She trailed off, for once unsure of herself. “Let’s just be ready to offer support to Neville if he needs it.” 

Ron nodded, a stalwart look on his face. 

“There’s something else,” said Roswitha, frowning. Their conversation about her title of captain among her friends had jogged her memory. “Something about me. I… I want to tell my parents about the quest — I meant to back in November, but then they got all angry over the troll.” 

“Blimey, Ros,” said Ron blinking. “Why on earth would you want to tell them in the first place?”

“I’ve never kept something like this from them,” said Roswitha frowning. “And I promised them I was going to be more prudent. Only now, I’ve kept it from them so long… I don’t know what they’ll say or do.”

Ron shook his head. “It won’t be good, mate. Look, they’re going to stop you doing this, you know that right?” 

Roswitha knew. And she also knew, somewhere deep inside of her, deep in her magic, that she had to do this quest for Hogwarts. If she told her parents, she might have to deliberately disobey them. This way she might just… skate by on the lack of information. Roswitha sighed. “You’re right. Look, don’t worry about it, let’s just get back to work.” 

They returned to their essays, eager for a preoccupation.

\---

The break came to an end, feeling abrupt and like they had spent an age waiting for it to happen at the same time. Roswitha and the Weasley boys packed up their trunks with their Christmas presents and everything they needed for school. Father had to return to Hogwarts the day before they left for Kings Cross Station, so he said goodbye to Roswitha at breakfast, their hug oddly tight, as they would see one another in potions class on Monday. 

Roswitha did not cry when she said goodbye to her father, but only because the Weasleys didn’t have anyone to say goodbye to. It wouldn’t have been fair for her to cry. 

Fred and George took off almost as soon as they train had started rolling, for Lee Jordan appeared in their compartment door and enticed them away. Percy, though, stayed put, reading through a novel Roswitha had let them borrow, even as the rest of Pride 98 began to find them and fill the compartment. The same interaction seemed to happen again and again, first with Dean and Neville who found them right away. They opened the compartment door mouths wide, ready to tell the others what they had found, only to spot Percy and click their mouths shut. 

“So, how was break?” Dean asked as he slumped down on one of the compartment benches. 

Then the same thing happened with Hermione. And Lavender and Parvati. And Seamus. And when Sophie and Fay arrived, Percy finally clicked his book shut. “Alright!” he growled. “Have your secret meeting already.” 

“Thanks, Percy,” Ron chirped, sending his brother a friendly wave. 

Percy only threw up his hands and stormed out of the compartment. 

Sophie and Fay shuffled in after Percy left and locked the door behind them. From his bag. Dean pulled out blue paper drawn on with silver ink, which he unfolded to unveil a large schematic entitled, “Heist Plans.” Subtitled, “Not for Real Mum.” Seamus and Hermione pulled out their notebooks and everyone else pulled out any notes they had made over the holiday. 

“So then,” said Roswitha, smiling brightly at her friends, “shall we begin?” 

\---

The heist plans had progressed as well as they possibly could while they were apart. During the rest of the train ride they compiled what they had learned over the break in between visits from other houses, games, meals and bathroom breaks. They agreed before they got up to the castle that it was likely that Dumbledore had organized whatever protections the Philosopher's Stone had. Therefore, the professors who were closest to Dumbledore were likely involved with the protections as well. That meant Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Hagrid and Snape. “Possibly Professor Quirrel,” said Hermione as they considered the candidates. “Since he _is_ the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.”

Then they had to pause when the train got in, in order to disembark and make their way up to the castle. It was supper time, so they all went to the Great Hall directly, their trunks and animals taken to their rooms as they had been before. After the Great Hall they went to the club house for the few hours they had left before curfew in order to talk about the heist some more. 

“So six challenges,” said Seamus, frowning. 

“Seven,” Roswitha corrected. “Dumbledore will have a challenge himself.” 

They agreed that the challenge would likely be related to the Professor’s field of study, but that met a wide range. The only exception was Hagrid, whose challenge was certainly the cerberus guarding the trap door. 

“Is it possible to find out what sort of challenge each professor will create, even?” Lavender asked as they went over their plan. 

“Some of them maybe,” said Ron, as he turned to Roswitha. “Any idea what Snape’s will be?”

“Weirdly, I have a feeling it wouldn’t be something to do with potions,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “Father always liked confounding others — if someone expected him to make a potion challenge, he probably wouldn’t.” 

“That takes us back a step,” said Sophie with a huff. “Anything else he likes? Something that he might put in instead of a potion’s challenge?” 

Roswitha thought on it for a moment, trying to remember if there was something Father particularly enjoyed beyond his craft. It came to her in a rush — every birthday and Christmas and just because occasion Father had ever gifted her something had always included a puzzle of some sort. “A puzzle — he’s always liked puzzles. I’m sure one will be apart of his challenge.”

Hermione lit up at the thought. “A puzzle would be nice! Then we wouldn’t even need any magic.”

“Unless it’s a magic puzzle,” Seamus pointed out. “So, then, how do we get it out of the other professors what their challenge will be? Sprouts will probably be a plant of some kind, but we can’t very well ask any of them outright.” 

They all went silent for a minute, which is when Draco decided to walk into the clubhouse. “Ask them about their specialties of course,” he said far too casually. 

“Were you listening outside the door?” Roswitha asked. 

Draco only shrugged as he went over to the bookshelf in the room and took down a book on potion making. “Shouldn’t have left it open,” he said, without the slightest hint of remorse. “Don’t look so dour cos’, I know about your quest after all. But if you want another piece of advice, it’s going to look strange to have ten Gryffindors asking questions about the professors’ specialties so suddenly. They compare notes, you know.” And with that, Draco fairly skipped from the room.

The Gryffindors all watched him go, glaring at his back, even Roswitha. 

Then, Sophie huffed, saying, “I sort of hate to admit it, but he’s right. We may need to divide and conquer.” 

Everyone then looked to Roswitha, who furrowed her brow and gave the dilemma a good thought. Then she said, “Well, I shall be having lessons with Professor Dumbledore, so if anyone ought to be able to figure out what sort of challenge he’ll have, it will be me. As for the other four… Hermione, do you think you’ll be able to figure out a time when the whole year could meet?” 

Hermione lit up so brightly at the prospect the rest of them giggled. She deflated slightly, but said, “Yes, of course.” 

“Alright,” said Roswitha, nodding. “When we’ve had a meeting with everyone, we’ll give out assignments between the four houses, if they're willing, to see who can investigate what professor.” She paused, then added. “If we’re all agreed, that is?” 

“I’ll second the motion to include the other houses,” said Dean, raising his hand. 

“All agreed?” Seamus asked. 

Everyone raised their hands. 

Their first week back, everything quickly fell into a routine. Roswitha went running every morning with Dean and some of the others. They went to class, box, and then hung out at the library or the club house until curfew. Classes proceeded as they had first term, with the exception that she had added Professor Dumbledore on Friday mornings. As Roswitha walked to the Headmaster’s office her first morning back, she certainly hoped that Professor Dumbledore was not planning to read her mind right away, as he would almost certainly find out what they were planning. Thankfully, when he invited her inside to sit down, Professor Dumbledore began to lecture.

“The first thing,” said Professor Dumbledore the bright morning of January 10, “you must realize about occlumency is that the greatest defense is perhaps counterintuitive on two points. The first is that many times, though not always, it is better to let whoever seeks to gain entrance into your mind. Can you think why, Miss Black?”

Roswitha paused where she was scribbling notes and looked up at him. “Well,” said Roswitha, pulling her pen from the page so the ink didn’t pool. “I suppose it would be rather unexpected, so it could throw the intruder off their guard.” 

“It could indeed,” said Dumbledore, with a nod. “And another reason?” 

Roswitha considered it again. “Well…” she said, still thinking, though Professor Dumbledore. There were Professors who rushed to answer a question when a student didn’t know, like Professor Quirrel, or others who provided hints, like Professor Sprout or Professor Flitwick. Dumbledore sat in complete silence, appearing unbothered by her need to think. “Well,” said Roswitha again, licking her lips, “I suppose that any person who is trying to enter my mind is probably going to be more magically skilled than me. So, even I try to stop them breaking through, they might get in anyway.”

“They might,” Professor Dumbledore agreed with a slight nod.

“Er, supposing that they did,” Roswitha continued. “I would have wasted energy trying to prevent their entry. And then… that would be bad?”

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. “You are correct that your energy would be wasted on an opponent much more proficient in the mind arts. But, it would also give you away as someone who could defend their mind. Therefore, the legilimens may begin to doubt any information they find in your mind or resort to physical torture.”

Roswitha sucked in a breath of air — she had never considered someone torturing her before. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Professor Dumbledore. He looked over the top of his half-moon glasses at her. “You should not have to consider torture at this young age, but it is perhaps something to bear in mind in the future.”

“I’ll make a note of it, sir,” said Roswitha, scribbling down in her notebook. Considering her notes, she asked, “What was the second thing I might find counterintuitive?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, with a little smile. “You ought to show the individual what they seek — or at least, your version of what they seek. Supposing you become an auror in your future career, and are up against someone attempting to ferret out the location of a diplomat. What might you think, knowing that they are in your mind?” 

Roswitha hummed for the moment. “Well, if the diplomat is in Sussex, I would send my opponent to Essex.”

“Why Essex?” Professor Dumbledore asked. 

“It sounds like Sussex,” said Roswitha. 

Professor Dumbledore laughed. “Oh, very good, Miss Black. You have stumbled on a very important concept! The mind can be a tricky thing, and it can be easy within our own mind to confuse similar concepts. So, it is easy for others to do so as well. If you can encourage that tendency in an intruder to your mind why,” Professor Dumbleodre gave a single clap, then spread out his arms as if presenting the world to her, “you have a worthwhile defense.” 

They lessons took this general approach. Dumbledore would never lecture overlong, preferring to ask questions and make Roswitha think, rather than just handing off knowledge wrapped in a bow. 

If he suspected her of planning to steal the stone, he did not lead her in that direction. Even so, Roswitha began referring to the heist as a farce in her head no matter the circumstances, especially during heist prep. It never hurt to be prepared, she reasoned. 

(She also allowed herself to be distracted by the beautiful bird, who Professor Dumbledore eventually introduced as his phoenix, Fawkes. 

“Has he ever attempted to blow up parliament, sir?” Roswitha asked, as she fed Fawkes some herring she had saved from the night before. 

Chuckling, Professor Dumbledore said, “Indeed, I don’t think he’s ever had the notion.”)

\---

Attempting to be discreet, Hermione took a little time to collaborate the various schedules of the first years. She finished by the end of January and the girls wrote out invitations to the other houses, requesting they _répondez s'il vous plaît_ by the end of the month. They practiced their secret agent skills, by passing off the letters as secretively as possible during class or meal times (since they never could seem to catch their fellows during their time in the clubhouse). The letters were returned in equally secretive hand offs (or as secretive as they could make them), except for the Slytherins who sent theirs by owl (since, as they said, that’s what owls were for). 

They held the year meeting on the second Wednesday of February. 

Everyone from the other houses arrived in waves, all of them attempting to cast eyes away from the club house. When all forty of them were seated at the round table, eyes went to Roswitha in her normal seat. She flushed. She had not realized until this moment that everyone would be looking to her for the reason why the meeting was called. Worse, there were still people whispering. 

Roswitha brushed down her robes and stood. 

Seamus, who had acquired a gavel, banged it on the table. “Order!” he called out, causing all the whispers to drop off. 

“Erm, thank you, Seamus.” Roswitha cleared her throat, finding it suddenly scratched up. “Back in September, when we all first met up in the library, I said that I had a quest. And, erm, everyone was quite nice to help me determine what it was I was looking for. I said then that I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble or put anyone into danger, and I stand by that. So, if you don’t want a part in what’s going on, I won’t hold anything against you if you leave.” 

She paused for a moment, waiting, but all eyes held firm on her. 

Susan Bones raised her hand. 

“Yes, Susan?” Roswitha asked.

“Can we say no, after we learn about what the quest is?” Susan asked. 

Roswitha’s brow furrowed. “Of course.”

Susan nodded. “Alright then — let’s hear what you have to say.”

Roswitha took a deep breath. “Okay. You may all think me a touch mad at first, but please, let me finish explaining.” And explain she did, about hearing the castle, about how it had tasked her with removing an item they now believed to be the Philosopher’s Stone, and how it had proved its point by forcing her, Parvati, Ron and Hermione into the room with the three-headed dog. “And in order to go about the quest sensibly, or as sensibly as we could, Hermione came up with three contraints. The first was if what we were doing had any ethical objections, which we determined it didn’t, at least in this scenario. The second was to determine what we would be stealing. The third is where we’ve run into trouble.”

“Do we finally get to help with this quest?” Draco asked, his face morphing into one of wide eyed, unparalleled joy as he leapt to his feet.

All eyes flew to him, and Roswitha found herself unable to stifle a giggle and Draco’s enthusiasm. Draco flushed bright red, a color only more pronounced by his pale skin, and he sunk into his seat, mumbling apologies as he went. 

“As it happens,” said Roswitha after she took a moment to collect herself. “Yes. We need your help — the help of the other houses that is. We think that Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout and Quirrell have had a hand in designing protections that guard the Philosopher's Stone.”

Morag MacDougal looked up from where she was scrawling notes. “Only them?” 

“There are probably three others,” Roswitha said, nodding. “Well, we know for sure Hagrid’s challenge is the three-headed dog. And Professors Snape and Dumbledore are sure to have challenges as well, but —”

“But Professor Snape’s your father,” said Daphne with a grin, and the whole table grinned or giggled or both. 

Roswitha flushed but pressed on. “Yes. Professor Snape’s my father. And I’m taking occlumency lessons from Professor Dumbledore. I think Professor Snape’s challenge is going to be a puzzle of some sort, and I think I can know enough about Dumbledore by the time we carry out the heist to figure out his challenge.” She hoped is what Roswitha meant to say. But what she felt was that she would have to learn all she could and then when it was time, that would be that. “In any case, we figure asking the professors their specific area of expertise within a subject would help narrow the focus, but it can’t be only Gryffindors who ask. It will be too suspicious.” 

“For that matter,” said Pansy, nodding along with what Roswitha said, “It will have to be over a period of time. A couple of months at least. Even if you split it among the houses, it’ll still be suspicious if someone asks one professor one day and another professor the next.” 

Roswitha and the other Gryffindors considered this. It was the start of February now. If they gave it a couple of months to ferret out their required information it would be the end of March or the start of April until they got the information they needed. That wouldn’t be so bad — and Pansy was right. It _would_ make them less suspicious to the Professors. 

“Should we vote on that?” Roswitha asked the others. “Or is it clear enough?”

“Seems clear to me, Captain,” said Dean, and the other Gryffindors nodded along with him. 

Hannah raised her hand, saying, “I have a question unrelated to the heist.”

“Erm, yes?” Roswitha asked, wondering if all their professors felt this strange while teaching.

“Why are you called Captain?” Hannah asked, frowning in seriousness. “I’ve wondered that all first term.” The other three houses turned to Roswitha with Hannah the same wondering in their eyes. 

“I was elected leader of our year of Gryffindors,” said Roswitha, trying to keep it as simple as possible. “And well, Dean called me captain our second day here and it’s stuck ever since. Any other questions? Heist or title related?” 

To her, perhaps unwarranted, surprise, Gregory Goyle raised his hand. “Are you like King Arthur?” 

“Sorry?” Roswitha asked. 

“Because you got elected leader of the round table,” said Gregory, intently, “and you have a quest and everything.” 

Roswitha gave his suggestion a moment of sincere thought. Then she shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Being captain is enough work. I don’t think I could be a king too. In any case, will you all help us, me really, with this?” 

Everyone mulled over her proposal, murmuring among their houses. 

After several minutes, Draco looked up and, grinning, said, “Well, you have Slytherin’s swords, Captain.”

Justin Finch-Fletchly giggled. “And Hufflepuff’s axe!” 

Giggling too, Lisa Turpin added, “And Ravenclaw’s bow!” 

Hermione was in stitches, and Roswitha too grinned at the paraphrase. There were others, confused though, and Stephen Cornfoot protested, “But none of us even have bows.” 

Lisa only shook her head, saying, “I’ll loan you _The Lord of the Rings_, you’ll like it.” .

Everyone burst out in murmurs wondering what lords and rings had to do with bows, axes and swords.

“Alright then!” said Susan, trying to gain everyone’s attention as Roswitha just sort of giggled. “Seamus, bang your gavel.” 

Seamus did, bringing everyone back into order. 

Susan, when everyone had been brought to order continued. “Alright then,” she said. “I might not know about Lords and rings, but my auntie does like a bit of spy telly. So, then, what is our mission, since we’ve chosen to accept it, and does the tape self destruct?” 

Here, Roswitha passed the briefing over to Hermione, who had been adjusting their timetable with the suggestions from the others, and a twenty sided die Justin had rolled her when he had seen her writing. Hermione stood and went over who would ask what and when, and everyone looked reasonably pleased at their assignments, though the Ravenclaws and Slytherins did opt to trade, as cunning or no, the Slytherins thought they would have a tough time getting anything out of McGonagall. 

“Now, then, as we all have our assignments,” said Roswitha when Hermione had finished. “Did anyone understand the transfiguration assignment this week?” All the Gryffindors except Hermione had been stumped, and Hermione couldn’t think of a way to explain it. 

The Ravenclaws all but rushed to their feet, and everyone got out their homework. When the prefects making rounds that night came around the club house, that was how the found everyone, working on homework and having a good time together. 

\---

They went about things as slowly as a group of forty eleven-year-olds could. Pansy and some of the other Slytherins ought to have spaced things out a little more so that the heist would take place at the start of June at the earliest, but then again she was the one who came to the club house, flush because she had blurted out to Professor Flitwick in class asking about his specialty not a week after the assignments meeting in the club house. Professor Flitwick had been delighted to talk about it, of course, how he had been a champion dueler in his day.

Millicent, only slightly more composed as the Hufflepuffs glared as they were supposed to ask Professor Quirrel his specialty first, had brightly inquired, “So, you like dueling arts out of all the charms, sir?”

“Well,” said Professor Flitwick, a little flush himself. “I am _best_ at the dueling arts, Miss Bulstrode. But I have always had a particular fondness for levitation and flying charms. 

Draco reported that he had to silence both Crabbe and Goyle so they did not ask if it was because Professor Flitwick was short. 

“You know something,” said Michael Corner as the Slytherins made their report. “I’ve been signing out a school broom to go flying and there have been three always out since the start of term.”

Megan Jones wrinkled her nose. “Now that you mention it, I’ve seen Professor Flitwick talking to Madam Hooch an awful lot this term. I don’t think I saw them together as much last term.” 

Hermione and Seamus furiously scribbled in the space for Professor Flitwick’s challenge to do with broom flying. 

\---

The Gryfinndors were meant to go next and ask Professor Sprout (well, Neville specifically was going to ask Professor Sprout), what her specialty in herbology was, but as it happens the Ravenclaws went out of order as well. 

“It was an accident,” Anthony insisted, bright red.

“Ah, well, we know, Ant,” said Morag, patting his hand. “Go on then, and tell everyone what you saw.”

Anthony had stayed behind in Transfiguration class to ask for extra reading related to their current assignment, and as he was talking to Professor McGonagall, Anthony happened to notice a sheaf of papers with a diagram of a chess board on it. 

When their current topic of conversation had ended, Anthony had asked, “Do you like chess, Professor?” indicating to her papers. 

Professor McGonagall had become flustered, taking up the papers from her desk and stacking them together out of his view. “Well, yes, I do enjoy a game from time to time. But now, run along, Mr. Goldstein, I have another appointment.” 

Anthony had run along, and only when he related the experience to his other Ravenclaw did they realize what he had come across without meaning too. 

“A chess set!” said Ron with a giant grin. “Well, then, I definitely have to go with Ros.” He turned his attention to the other Gryffindors who sullenly glared at Ron, but did not raise objection.

“Wait, why do you get to go?” Draco asked, wrinkling his nose. 

Pansy made a face. “Loathe though I am to admit it, Weasley is the best chess player in Hogwarts.” 

“Thank you,” said Ron. 

“But you shouldn’t just take Gryffindors,” said Draco, meeting Roswitha’s eye. “You should have at least one Slytherin with you, so we can curb those Gryffindor impulses.”

Blaise kicked Draco under the table. “So, that won’t be you then.”

“Blaise is right,” said Theodore, before Draco could object. “She’s your cousin — you love her too much to check her impulses.” 

“Wait, does that mean you’ll take people from other houses too?” Su asked, looking up at Roswitha.

“Hold on!” said Roswitha as more people began to speak up. Everyone went quiet as they looked to her. “What’s this about people coming with me?”

Nearly as one, all the Gryffindors rolled their eyes. “Oh, come on, Ros,” said Dean, groaning. “I’ve said it from the beginning, ‘safety in numbers'. You can’t do this by yourself.” 

Everyone was nodding now. “And we all have our strengths,” said Morag, “so, you have plenty of people to pick from to take with you and help out.” 

“Oh.” Roswitha had been convinced she would have to do this on her own. She had been planning on it from the beginning, even with her friends helping her figure out what the obstacles would be and what she would be stealing. She had been alone for so long before her parents, and since she had counted them out since November, Roswitha had felt alone in this, even with all her friends around her. “It will be —”

“We know it’s dangerous, Roswitha,” said Hannah, softly. Then she smiled. “But you’re doing it, and it’s no less dangerous because you’re doing it.” 

“But it _will_ be less dangerous if you’ve got people you can trust,” said Sophie, stretching across the table, practically laying on top of it, to poke Roswitha. 

Roswitha began to feel uncomfortably warm. It was more than embarrassment, it was something else, something she couldn’t name. “Well, let’s table that for now. The heist isn’t for some time now. Good work, Anthony.” 

Everyone must have been able to tell that Roswitha was uncomfortable, because they let the subject drop easily enough. 

\---

Another two weeks passed and they all waited with bated breath for Neville to broach the subject in herbology class. He didn’t. 

“I just lost my nerve,” said Neville after class. “I will next week I promise.”

Roswitha, nervous at all the elapsed time, made sure to partner with Neville, whispering to him, “Just remember, act casual. You like plants and she likes plants.” 

“Casual,” Neville murmured. 

Neville trying to casually broach Professor Sprout with the subject of her specialty during class ended up being more of a shout, however. They were repotting plants in herbology and as Sprout walked by to check their work, she mentioned that the particular shade of Roswitha’s gloves was one of her favorites. 

“Do you have a favorite plant?” Neville asked, all in a rush. 

The other Gryffindors stiffened for a moment before the nearby Hufflepuffs nudged them something less than discreet. 

Professor Sprout did not notice as she was laughing, good naturedly, at Neville’s question. “Goodness! That would be like picking a favorite child, if I had any. But I must admit, I have always had a fondness for dionaea muscipula giganta and devil’s snare. Both are particularly vicious plants, understand, so you won’t be seeing them until your NEWT years, if at all, but absolutely beautiful. Keep up the good work, Mr. Longbottom, and you’ll see them one day.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Neville.

All of them left herbology particularly giddy — well nearly all. Roswitha, feeling a stupid grin on her face, held Neville’s hand as they left herbology. She turned back to congratulate him when they were out of earshot, which is when she saw how dejected Neville was. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked. 

“I didn’t do it right,” said Neville, frowning. “And she gave two answers instead of one!” 

Roswitha smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You did great. And two plants are much easier to prepare for than hundreds.” 

Neville flushed when she kissed him. “I suppose, and I know enough —” Neville cut off as he blinked rapidly. “Wait, Ros, I have an idea.” He pulled her along by their hand hold as he began to run back toward the greenhouses. 

“Neville!” Roswitha said, laughing as they ran. “What is it?”

Neville panted as they reached the greenhouses again, passing by the one where they had glass with Professor Sprout, and going to the others. “I just had a thought — I know about dionaea muscipula giganta because Professor Sprout has one in the greenhouses. Look, there it is!” Neville pointed to one in greenhouse seven. “And they’re rare enough that I don’t think she’d be able to get another one.” 

Roswitha felt a grin rise to her mouth as she realized what he was saying. “She doesn’t have any devil’s snare in the greenhouses, does she?” 

“She wouldn’t,” said Neville shaking his head. “It likes the dark and damp.”

“Like, say, down a trap door under a castle?” Roswitha asked. 

Neville smiled back at her, beaming bright as the sun. “Yes!” 

Roswitha took his hand, saying, “C’mon, we have to tell the others.” 

They ran back to the castle together, hand in hand, until both of them were out of breath in the club house. 

\---

The Hufflepuffs, adamant to show the Slytherins up for not waiting their turn, waited until the others classes had gone, what had originally been the Slytherin’s spot, and a full three weeks after Neville figured out about the Devil’s Snare before asking Professor Quirrel what his specialty was in the dark arts. 

“O-o-oh,” said Professor Quirrel, giving off a genuine smile (according to the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws) instead of the nervous thing he normally produced. “D’you know, I h-h-have always been rather g-g-good with t-t-trolls. Even b-b-before I became the d-d-defense in-in-instructor. Used to work with them.” Here, Susan said he gained a thoughtful expression, almost like he was daydreaming. When he came back to himself, Professor Quirrel stuttered out an addendum, “S-s-security trolls, I-I-I mean.”

“Well that doesn’t make any sense,” said Ron when they were back in the club house. His brow and nose were wrinkled in thought, the same face he made to study a chess board. 

Susan, who did not know Ron as well as them, frowned mightily, the other Hufflepuffs making the same expression on her behalf. “I beg your pardon — I’m telling you it exactly as it happened.”

“Oh, huh?” Ron looked up, his face relaxing. “Sorry, Susan, I don’t mean that _you_ make no sense. If that’s how you say it happened, that’s how it happened.”

“Oh,” said Susan, and the entire Hufflepuff contingent relaxed. “Well, what did you mean then? What doesn’t make sense?”

Ron hummed. “Well, if Quirrel’s specialty is trolls, why did he act like he did on Hallowe’en? Why couldn’t he have just dealt with it instead of running into the Great Hall screaming like he did, making a panic?” 

Everyone let Ron’s words sink into them. Roswitha couldn’t speak for everyone, but the more she turned over Ron’s thought in her head the more a feeling of dread began to rise up in her stomach. She had planned on waiting a week or so, maybe even another two, before carrying out the heist in the interest of playing it cool. But now a great sense of urgency spread over all Roswitha’s body. “This Saturday,” she said after a moment. “We’ve got to go this Saturday.” 

“You think so?” Dean asked. 

“I do,” said Roswitha, and a warm rush echoed over her spine — a sign from Hogwarts. “The sooner the better, and now that we have all the pieces put together and know what we’re facing, there’s no sense waiting. So, who’s coming with me? I don’t think I can take more than four — any more than that and we’ll be too noticeable.”

Susan’s hand shot up in the air. “Hufflepuff talked it over, and I made the case that it should be me.”

“She really did,” said Sally-Anne Perks, nudging Susan in the ribs. 

“But, hum.” Justin reached into his bag and pulled out a cassette player and a few tapes. “For the dog — you said music puts him to sleep and this way you can have your hands free. My mum made me take it with, because she wants me to listen to classical music. You can lose the tapes if you want, but please try to bring back the player. I use it for The Clash more than classical.” 

Roswitha accepted the player from him. “Thanks, Justin — that’s going to be a really big help. Alright, Slytherins, who’s your pick?” 

Pansy stood up, presenting herself. “I’m almost as good at chess as Weasley, better at puzzles, and I’m the most reasonable out of all Slytherin in our year.” 

“And she hits hard,” Vincent Crabbe muttered, though they all heard. 

Morag MacDoual stood next saying, “We Ravenclaws have discussed it, and we think Hermione should go.” 

“What?” Hermione asked, head jerking up from where it had been buried in her notes. “Me? Why?” 

“You’re one of Roswitha’s best friends,” said Morag, nodding with a smile. “And you know as much as any Ravenclaw. As much as we like you Roswitha, none of us know you very well, and this whole thing will go smoother if you have people you know a little better.” 

Roswitha saw the wisdom in it, but still she turned to Hermione. “Do you want to go down there with me?” 

Hermione flushed with all attention on her, but slowly, she nodded. “Yes — I’ll go with you.” 

And that was that. They had the information they needed, and they had chosen the team to do the deed. Come this Friday, the Heist would begin.


	11. The Heist Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, the heist goes off, almost, without a hitch.

On Friday, Professor Dumbledore could sense her distraction. “Are you well, Miss Black?” he asked her. 

“Hmm? Oh, yes, sir!” Roswitha sat up straight in her chair. “I’m sorry, it’s just Hermione’s started a revision schedule for exams, and it's gotten me thinking about them.”

“So soon?” Professor Dumbledore asked around a chuckle. 

Roswitha gave a little shrug. “Yes, well, Hermione doesn’t believe in leaving things to the last minute.” 

“It’s quite wise of her, now —” Then, all at once, Professor Dumbledore cut himself off and shot up out of his chair as he looked out the window. “Our lesson will have to end here for the day, Miss Black. Return to your dorm. Fawkes, to me!” 

Fawkes screeched and jumped from his perch, a single burst of his large wings enough to carry him over to Dumbledore. Dumbledore grabbed one of Fawkes tail feathers, and, in a burst of flame, they both disappeared. 

Roswitha hurried to the window where she saw, out on the law, Hagrid’s hut was burning. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed, stuffing her book in her bag as she ran for the door. She barely stopped in time for the gargoyle to move aside and did not stop until she made it to the potions lab where seventh years were practicing for their upcoming NEWTs. “HUT,” she managed to gasp out, as her Father stood up at his desk. “Burning, fire, lawn — needs help!” 

Father, thankfully, got her message, and all but leapt from behind the desk, shuffling her to the side, as did several seventh years who followed him out at a breakneck speed. Roswitha sat to the side in the lab and caught her breath, with the help of a prefect who gave her some bottled water. Roswitha helped the others douse the flames in the lab, before the prefects who didn’t have specialties in element magic decided to go out and help do any necessary crowd control. 

“That was well done,” said one girl, as she gave Roswitha a pat on the head. “Up to your dorm now.”

Gryffindor tower did not have a good view of Hagrid’s hut, but they could still see the smoke, and there was still a crowd by the window, trying to crane their necks to see. Roswitha only tugged on Dean’s robe, saying, “I’m going to go take a nap. Wake me for lunch?” 

Dean nodded, patting her back. “Cheers, Captain, have a good rest.” 

“Thanks, Q,” she said, ascending the dorm tower and flopping down on her bed. Roswitha sat up to remove her robe and then changed into something a little more comfortable. She fell asleep easily enough after that. 

Fay woke her up for lunch, and, yawning, Roswitha went down with her year and almost the entirety of Gryffindor house who were gossiping about the burning hut. There seemed to be a general consensus that a dragon had been the source of Hagrid’s woes. No one knew how he got it, but as Hagrid assisted Professor Kettleburn with Care of Magical Creatures, people thought it must have been something gone wrong with one of the professor’s studies. 

Professor Dumbledore, clean of any ash or soot, announced that though Hagrid’s hut had burned, the fire had started at the top of the house and been contained quickly enough that it could be rebuilt rather quickly. He did not announce what had caused the fire, which only added fuel to the flame of gossip. 

“Poor Hagrid,” said Roswitha, frowning at the announcement. “That’s awful, to have everything burn down.”

“I wonder if it really was a dragon, though,” said Ron, looking thoughtful. “Charlie’d like that — a dragon on Hogwarts grounds.” 

The subject of dragons continued, but now that the announcement had been made, Roswitha noticed that her father was absent from the head table. After lunch, she made her way to the infirmary. Thankfully, all those who remained there were a couple of seventh years who inhaled too much smoke. Madam Pomfrey told Roswitha that her father had been there, but he had been well enough to leave. “I told him to go straight to his quarters and rest a while. He didn’t get any of the smoke, but he was a little magically exhausted and needed to sleep. See that you don’t interrupt him, now, Miss Black.” 

Roswitha breathed a sigh of relief and agreed to let him rest. 

As she happened to pass Susan on her way back to the Gryffindor dorms, Roswitha took the opportunity to whisper, “it’s still on.” 

Susan nodded, discreetly, and continued on her way. 

Roswitha retrieved her broom from her room and then made her way to the charms classroom, to ask Professor Flitwick a purely hypothetical question of how she could shrink her broom without damaging the broom’s magic. 

Professor Flitwick gave her as stern a look as he could manage saying, “No flying in the halls, Miss Black, and no jumping from any of the towers.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Roswitha nodding emphatically. 

Professor Flitwick called over some NEWT level students who were practicing charms as well, and they all proposed means by which to shrink the broom without adversely affecting any of the charms already present. Once Professor Flitwick approved of a method, and Roswitha thought she had a grasp on it, she cast the spell and shrunk her broom. Reversing the charm, Roswitha brought the broom back to full size and pleasantly found that the Nimbus 2000 still flew perfectly. 

“Thanks Professor!” said Roswitha with a grin. “That was really bothering me.” 

She returned to the Gryffindor dorm before shrinking her broom down again and pocketing it, carefully, so she would not break it. Then, Roswitha went to supper with her friends, and returned to the dorm feeling exceedingly restless. Normally, they would all try to sleep before astronomy. Roswitha did lay down, but found sleep far away for at least an hour. Eventually, she nodded off by virtue of being horizontal. When she woke, Roswitha went to astronomy almost as usual, packing her bag differently than she normally would. Even if she hadn’t left her notebook and textbook behind, Roswitha thought it would be a miracle if she actually managed to chart any celestial bodies that night. 

On the way back down from astronomy was when things became unusual. Roswitha had worn her Weasley jumper, a sturdy pair of denims, and the boots Father had gotten her at Christmas to class under her robe. As they left, Sophie took her outer robe so that Roswitha could move more freely. The satchel had several supplies they would need, so that stayed on Roswitha’s shoulder. Hermione, Ron, Susan, and Pansy similarly passed off items as they made their way down from the tower. When the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws split off to go to their own towers, Roswitha, Ron, and Hermione hung with the group. When they came to the third floor stairwell, the five of them split off and went toward the third floor corridor on the right side. 

The castle was eerily quiet as they climbed the stairs and stood in front of the door that held the cerberus. 

“Are you listening?” Roswitha asked Hogwarts. “I’m doing as I said I would do.” 

“Are you talking to the castle?” Pansy asked, her voice coming out as a soft hiss. 

“She does that,” said Ron in a whisper

If Percy Weasley’s charms were at all effective on the old door, they had been removed, or maybe Hogwarts removed them, as the door easily slid open. Roswitha pulled out the cassette player and hit play, entering in with the others following behind her. Ron, who brought up the rear bolted the door behind him. The cerberus wuffled a little, but at the sound of a classical orchestra, it did not awaken. They moved its paw off the trap door. 

Roswitha passed the cassette player off to Hermione, while she and Ron attached a rope ladder Dean had procured for them over the winter break to the floor with a sticking charm. Roswitha climbed down first, slowing lowering the ladder so it wouldn’t get caught up in the devil’s snare. Pulling her wand from up her sleeve, Roswitha cast out, “_Lumos_!” and then flicked her wand as she had seen her pappa do on occasion. The ball of light hovered in the air revealing that some twenty feet down there was a large patch of the devil’s snare. 

Roswitha lowered the ladder slowly, thankful Dean had managed to find a hundred foot rope ladder, and cast again, this time with “_Fyrian egnian_,” moving her wand in a circle, five feet in diameter to burn the plant away. The plant seemed to shriek a little, like wind across the moore, but did nothing other than allow itself to be burnt away. The hole complete, Roswitha let the rest of the ladder fall and called up to the others, “You can come down now

“How long have we got?” Ron asked as they all began to descend the ladder.

“Neville said it will grow back as it was within a week,” said Roswitha. “But we probably shouldn’t tary in any case.” 

At the bottom, Pansy aimed high and cast a canceling spell, which had the dual effect of making the ladder drop and stopping Roswitha’s lumos charm. As quickly as they could, they rolled up the ladder and stuffed it back in Roswitha’s satchel, along with the cassette player, which Hermione had gripped so tightly, it had left indents on her fingers. To be on the safe side, everyone else drew out their wands as well when they began to move forward. 

The bottom of the ladder revealed a single stone passageway that did not branch off in any direction. 

“Only one way?” Pansy asked as they walked forward. “You’d think he’d want to make it some kind of labyrinth.”

“You should be a cursebreaker,” said Ron, nodding. “You’d be good at coming up with traps.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Don’t curse breakers, I dunno, break curses?”

“Yes, but they also set them.”

“Shh,” said Susan, her eyes trained on the end of the upcoming hallway. “Do you hear that?” 

They all stayed still and listened. It sounded odd, like a sort of buzzing almost, but not quite. 

“Do you think…” they all turned to Hermione. “Do you think that the thing to do with flying might have had to do with insects? It sounds like a swarm.” 

Roswitha gulped. She remembered a movie she has seen once where someone had been positively covered in flies before someone had changed the channel shrieking about nightmares. She had forgotten about it until now, and honestly couldn’t even remember who it was who changed the channel for her. “Wait here,” she said. On her lightest feet, she walked to the end of the hall and looked out. 

There were not insects, she thought at first, but birds. Then, as she motioned everyone forward, Roswitha realized they were not birds either. 

“Are those keys with wings?” Susan asked 

Feeling a little daring, Ron walked forward and went to examine the door on the other side of the room. The keys did not attack or swarm, though all the girls squeaked a little in fear for Ron (and themselves). Ron did the natural thing and tried to open the door, and then tried an _alohomora _on it. And then he pulled out a set of lock picks. 

“Where on earth did you get those?” Hermione asked, only to look up at the keys. 

“Fred and George,” said Ron, with a shrug. “If you want to look for a key, it’s got to be old and silver, but I thought I would try this first. I brought them just in case we needed them on the door upstairs.” 

There were brooms to one side of the room, which Roswitha found a little odd. Thinking that there was going to be something to do with flying she _had _brought her own, shrunken down to fit into her pocket. She took it out and unshrunk it, mounting up and taking a look around. The keys shied away from her as she flew too close, but being in the air allowed her to think. What Roswitha thought is that for the challenge to provide brooms… felt off.

Pansy, too, studied the brooms with a frown on her face. “Is it just me,” she said, “or is it almost like they _want_ us to complete the challenges.” 

“What if they did?” asked Susan, nibbling her lip. “What if this is a giant trap leading us to something we can’t escape from?

Ron stopped tinkering with the door and everyone turned to look at Roswitha. 

Roswitha, landing, supposed they had a point, quite validly. If this were the philosopher’s stone, there might very well be people trying to steal it for their own use. It would make sense to lay a trap -- make obstacles that appeared difficult but which could be worked through only to lay a final trial at the end that could not be solved. Or, in getting to the end there would be no way to turn back. 

“Give me a moment,” she said at last, taking a seat on the cold, stone floor. 

“And you’re going to do what?” Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m going to talk to the castle about this,” said Roswitha, settling into a meditation seat. “Just give me a moment.”

Ron, by now used to the fact that Roswitha could talk to magical buildings, just went back to picking the lock. Hermione, too, looked far less disconcerted than Pansy and Susan. 

Roswitha took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and cleared her mind like how Professor Dumbledore had been teaching her to do in occlumency training. Unlike in past months when Roswitha had reached out to ask about what lay ahead of her, Roswitha felt a warmth spread up her spine. 

“Close, close, so close,” said Hogwarts.

“Yes, I know,” said Roswitha, mumbling to herself. “What if it is a trap and we can’t return? Can you make us a way out of there?”

Hogwarts hummed with energy. “Many paths from there. Many wizards have come all the way and gone all the way back.”

“But are you sure?”

Silence from Hogwarts for a moment. Then, “If you cannot go back, you can go forward.” 

“You’re sure?” Roswitha asked. “It does you know good if I get the stone and cannot leave with it.” 

“I am sure,” said Hogwarts. “Blood of my beginning, you will know the path.” 

Roswitha opened her eyes and stared up at her friends, who stared back at her. She repeated back what Hogwarts had said to her as she got to her feet. 

“‘Blood of my beginning?’” Susan asked. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” said Roswitha, shaking her head. “I think we can trust it though, Hogwarts.”

Pansy was frowning with thought, but then she shrugged. “I don’t know that a building would have a reason to lie about that, especially since it wants the stone out of here. As the voice of Slytherin, I say we go forward.” 

“I agree with Pansy,” said Hermione. 

“I’ve got the door unlocked,” said Ron, waving to them. 

“Susan?” Roswitha asked, locking eyes with the blonde haired girl. “I want to do this together, or not at all.”

Slowly, Susan nodded. “Let’s go.”

In the next room, true to what Anthony Goldstein said, was a life sized chess board. 

Ron cracked his fingers, examining the board. 

Roswitha, despite everything, laughed at the excitement in her friend’s eyes. “Save some enthusiasm for the end, Ron.” 

“Wait,” said Pansy, raising up her hands. “Let’s try to cross first.”

They found their way blocked by the swords of the pawns, and all quickly scrambled off the board. The mouth of the white queen opened, and McGonagall’s Scottish brogue filled the room, “To go this way, you must play. A piece’s place you must take, a winning move you must make.”

“We have to be the chess pieces?” Susan asked with a squeak. “But in wizard’s chess, the pieces get destroyed.”

“You sit this one out then,” said Roswitha, firmly. “Just in case we need someone to go back for help.” 

“I’m playing,” said Pansy, just as firmly. “I might not be as good as Weasley, but I’m good enough.”

“I’m good to play,” said Hermione. 

“Alright,” said Ron, nodding. “Ros, take the queen’s bishop spot, Hermione, go for king’s castle. I’ll be a knight and --”

“I’ll be a knight,” said Pansy firmly. “I just said you’re the better chess player. You be the king -- all you have to do in the end is surrender and we need you alive for the whole game.” 

Ron huffed. “Fine, I’ll be the king, you be king’s knight.” 

Later, Roswitha would not recall much of this -- partly because the game play took no more than fifteen minutes, and partly because it was actually the most frightening part -- including the troll in the next room which they snuck past while distracting it with Percy’s butterfly spell. They watched as pieces, both black on their side and white on the other, were smashed and thrown off to the side, sometimes in pieces. But Pansy and Ron were not to be outdone. Together they could work through the game and shortly enough, Ron was directing Roswitha to checkmate the king. 

When they got to the other side, they all paused for a moment, pale and disconcerted and panting. 

“I’m never messing around in McGonagall’s class,” Roswitha declared. “Ever.” 

Everyone nodded their agreement, and stood for a moment more.

“How long has it been?” Susan asked. 

Roswitha checked her watch. “We left astronomy at a quarter after one,” she said. “It’s just gone two now.”

“We should get going then,” said Hermione. 

They didn’t move for a minute more.

Finally, it was Susan who went for the door, and they all prepared themselves to move.

Luckily, as Ron had said sometime in the past few weeks, they already knew how to deal with a troll, and they were quiet as they snuck past. 

When they got over the threshold of the next room, though, purple flames shot up behind them, and black flames in front of them. The troll, the butterflies gone, but the fire appeared, attempted to reach out for them, but the purple flames prevented him from coming through. The troll grunted and sat down on its haunches by the door, watching them. 

Ron grimaced. “I hope you were right about the castle providing us a way out.” 

“I hope so too,” said Roswitha as Hermione, Susan and Pansy examined the bottles to one side, along with a piece of paper with them. 

The girls examined the paper in silence for a few minutes, before Hermione said, “The smallest bottle will get us through the black flame.”

“Agreed,” said Pansy.

Ron frowned though. “But there’s so little of that. How will all of us get through?”

They all took a moment to swallow down their fear and then Pansy said, “Well, just a drop each first and then… and then…”

“And then one of us gets out and goes to find a professor,” said Roswitha, steeling herself. “And this is all my fault if that does happen, understand?” 

“But that’s not fair!” Susan protested.

“My quest, my responsibility,” said Roswitha, turning toward her. “Let’s try it Pansy’s way first.”

Pansy had an eye dropper in her pocket and refused to explain why, only that it had held nothing before now and so should be safe. She squeezed some of the potion into the dropper and let a little drop onto Roswitha’s tongue, as Roswitha stood ready to leap through the flames. As soon as the potion touched her tongue, it felt like a rush of cold water had run through her and she ran through the flames, to the chamber on the other side. 

Roswitha moved out of the way as the others shortly followed, Pansy bringing up the rear. 

The last chamber was by far the largest, but only held a single item. In the center of the room stood a beautiful, full sized mirror, taller than all of them by at least five heads, with an ornate gold frame. 

“We came all this way for a mirror?” Pansy asked, frowning and slumping down on the steps that led down into the chamber. 

“No,” said Roswitha shaking her head. “This is Dumbledore’s test, I’m sure of it.” 

As she got closer, she saw there was an inscription on the top which read _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. _“Erised,” Roswitha murmured, reaching out to touch the mirror. “Is that your name?”

“No wait!” Pansy and Hermione cried. 

Roswitha did not receive the normal warmth she got from something magical when she communicated with it. Nor did she receive a shock or some instant death that Pansy and Hermione probably feared. Instead, she just felt the gold of the mirror. Roswitha huffed, “Well, that was disappointing.” She turned to everyone. “You all rest a little bit, I’ll figure this out.” 

The others did not object, slumping down, and yawning. All the excitement being done, and the late hour were getting to them, even if they had all had a nap or several earlier that day. 

Roswitha stepped back from the mirror and examined it. “All I want to do is find that stone and get out of here,” she mumbled to herself. “Normal first years don’t have these problems.” As Roswitha looked into the mirror, trying to divine the answers to her problems, she saw a very curious thing. She saw herself, of course, but instead of her mirror image looking straight back at her, Roswitha’s mirror twin held a finger to her lips. Then, the twin reached behind her back and pulled out a dark red stone, stuffing it inside Roswitha’s pocket. 

Roswitha looked down at her pocket and found there was a lump there that hadn’t been there before. She reached in and pulled out the same red stone that she had seen just a moment before. Roswitha turned back to her friends and all of them gapped at her. 

“That was it?” Hermione sputtered her. “But what if someone evil _had_ come to steal the stone and that was all they had to do? Just ask for it?” 

“Maybe there’s more to the puzzle that we’re not seeing?” Ron suggested. 

“Maybe,” said Susan.

“I want to be more upset about this,” said Pansy, slumping. “But I’m tired. Can we leave now?” 

“Hogwarts,” Roswitha called out, her voice echoing in the chamber. “Please show us the way out.”

For a moment, Roswitha was worried that Hogwarts would show them back toward the way they came. But then a glimmer came up from the stones, leading them toward a back wall, Roswitha put her hand there to get further direction, but the wall opened and moved aside. The floor beyond glowed as well, leading them in a path up a set of stairs. 

“I wish all of us had brought brooms,” said Pansy as they walked. 

“Want a piggyback ride?” Ron asked. 

Pansy sniffled a little. “That’s not very dignified.” 

Roswitha turned and caught her face though, which suggested Pansy was seriously considering it. 

When they came to the top of the stairs, there was nothing, no door or any sort of thing. Roswitha pulled her wand from her sleeve and tapped the stone above. “Open up, please.” 

The stone lifted and pulled to one side. Roswitha put the stone in her pocket (had she been gripping it so tightly this whole time?) and pulled herself out. She then helped Ron up, and together they pulled the others own. To their surprise, they were back in the clubhouse on the second floor. 

“I guess Hogwarts picked this room for us for a reason,” said Roswitha. Then she shivered, for there was no fire lit, and it _was_ February. Susan knew a warming charm, though, and cast it over all of them, since they had all begun to shiver and shake. 

“What will you do with it?” Pansy asked, looking at Roswitha’s pocket. 

Roswitha opened her mouth. She intended to send it home and instruct Hedwig to just leave it on her desk. The elves never went through her desk, so she knew it would be safe there. “It’s probably best if I don’t say,” rushed out of her all at once. “All of the professors know legilimency to some small degree, and I don’t want any of you to get into trouble--” she broke off with a yawn. Roswitha shook it off and said, “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m ready for bed.” 

“What do we tell the others?” Susan asked. 

Roswitha thought for a moment, then smiled. “Tell them we’re having a party.” Then she went first out into the corridor, and she was glad she did. For no sooner had she walked two feet than Professor Snape rounded the corner

“Roswitha Artemis Black!” He stalked toward her his eyes blazing. “What are you doing awake and wandering the halls at half past two in the morning?!” he fairly hissed.

_Don’t look away_, she thought to herself, the stone heavy in her pocket. _He’ll know you’re lying if you look away. _“I couldn’t sleep,” she said after only a beat of silence. “So, I was coming to see you, Father. I didn’t get to see you after you left the infirmary, and Madam Pomfrey told me to let you rest. But, I just…” Roswitha fidgeted slightly and at last allowed her eyes to drop to the floor. 

Father huffed and came closer. He did not hug her, for Father was not much for hugs and she had not nearly just been killed by a mountain troll, but he did place a hand on her cheek. “Child, in this case you ought to have woken Professor McGonagall.” 

“I know,” said Roswitha, sighing. “It just seemed so silly to wake her up when I knew where your apartments were.” 

Father snorted. “Well, for one thing she might have been able to tell you that I was well rested enough to go on rounds tonight and therefore would not have been able to let you in. For another, you promised me that you were going to be more prudent, child. For that infraction alone, I think twenty-five points from Gryffindor is warranted.” 

Roswitha nodded, feeling heavy. “Yes, sir.” 

There came a silence between them. “You ought to know, however, that I am quite well — and have a little more faith. It will take more than a fire to stop me.” 

Roswitha dared a grin. “More prudence, more faith — is there anything else of which I’m in need?”

“More sleep,” said Father, dryly. “And a detention, I think. Just because you are my daughter does not mean you can break the rules. Tomorrow night you will join me for some cauldron scrubbing, am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Roswitha, nodding. “And I’m sorry for sneaking out.” 

“Show a little repentance as well as sorrow and you’ll go far.” He shooed her away. “Now, back to your dorm. I trust you don’t need me to escort you.” 

Roswitha shook her head and began to walk back toward Gryffindor dorm, her steps slow and measured. She imagined that the others could hear their conversation, so surely knew to wait a little until Professor Snape had walked away to try and sneak off. And sure enough, she only needed to linger by the stairs a moment or two before Pansy and Susan began to race down the stairs, their footsteps completely silent, and Ron and Hermione nearly raced by her. Roswitha raced alongside them, annoyed that her shoes were making noise, but didn’t stop to ask. 

They made it to Benvegnuda’s portrait in good time and without being caught again. Benvegnuda opened up with only a small, “tut-tut, children,” and they piled into the common room. 

Panting, Hermione tried to say something, but no sound came out of her. 

“_Finite Incantatem_,” Roswitha cast over them. 

“Thanks!” said Hermione when she could talk again. “Susan silenced us all so Professor Snape wouldn’t hear us getting away.”

“You really took a curse for us, Ros,” said Ron, shaking his head. “Sorry about the detention.” 

Rosiwtha shook her head. “It could have been worse. We could have _all_ had points taken. It probably would have been more than twenty-five a piece, then. C’mon, let’s get to bed, we’ll talk more in the morning.” 

Ron and Hermione nodded, and they walked to the dormitory stairwells, parting ways there. Hermione and Roswitha climbed all the way to the top. To Roswitha’s mind, now realizing it was safe and about to be ensconced in her warm, comfortable bed, this climb seemed like the longest part of the night so far. But they made it to the top. 

The others had all fallen asleep in their day clothes, likely waiting up to hear how everything had gone.

“They had the right idea,” said Hermione, falling face first into her bed. 

Roswitha took a moment, though, and sat down at her desk. She pulled out a blank sheet of parchment, considering how to address it. Hedwig, from her perch, watched Roswitha curiously. After some consideration, Roswitha wrote out, _To Maison de Menaçant, Vault and Store Room, 12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England. _Roswitha then turned the parchment over and wrote out, _wait for my return._ When the ink had dried, she pulled the philosopher’s stone from her pocket, placed it on the parchment, and then wrapped the parchment around the stone. Tying a string around the parchment to secure it in place, Roswitha stroked Hedwig’s feathers and passed on the small bundle. 

Hedwig chirped, taking the parcel and flying out the window. 

Roswitha unlaced her boots, but decided her day clothes would be just fine to sleep in for one night. Climbing into bed, she fell asleep almost at once. 


	12. The Result

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter in this book! Don't worry -- I'll be taking about a week off, but then I will start posting book two. Make sure to subscribe to the series if you want a notice of when that will happen! Also, thank you to everyone who has commented so far. I'm going to work on replying to each of you on this little week long break. :D You're amazing, and it's been so great to see comment notifications in my inbox.

Roswitha held up the unstuffed creature so that it’s clothe body blocked out the sun, trying to imagine it coming after a village.

“It looks kind of like a dragon,” said Fay, from where she sat with a square she was quilting. She had tried knitting in the past month and it hadn’t suited her. But, there were upper years who knew how to quilt, and Fay had taken to it like a duck to water.

“If you squint,” said Ron as he knit another square of fabric. Ron had taken to knitting like the giant squid took to water — capable of taking up much more space than a duck. Even if he had only done squares with the spare bits of yarn his mother had sent him, he still had enough to make a blanket large enough to cover Hagrid.

Roswitha, meanwhile, had had the brilliant idea to sew a stuffed animal in the shape of a dragon. Pappa had sent her fabric and a pattern he had found in London with Andromeda, along with a small sewing kit. It hadn’t gone horribly — the wings resembled wings, and the dragon did have horns, a snout and four paws. It just didn’t look very fearsome, even being made from red cloth. Roswitha sighed. “Oh well,” she said. “I did my best.”

“And it was your first try,” Dean reminded her.

They were on the lawn on the next to the last day of exams. Roswitha thought she had done well on the practical portion, remembering all parts of the spells they had studied so far, and her pineapple had tapped danced out a nice rhythm that made Professor Flitwick clap. All of her other practicals had gone perfectly, or as nearly perfect as she could get. As Professor Dumbledore had chosen not to give her an exam on occlumency, and as Roswitha figured she knew as many moons and stars as she ever would at this point, Roswitha chose to spend the afternoon out on the lawn. The rest of the class was not far behind her when she set out that afternoon, and soon they all lay out working on craft projects, or reading novels, or revising for their final exam in astronomy. Roswitha wanted to finish the dragon, though, so she could deliver it to Hagrid before she went home.

She had turned the little fellow inside out and was sewing up his belly when Professors McGonagall and Snape strode out onto the green. Professor McGonagall cast some sort of spell that projected her voice when she held it up to her mouth. “May I have your attention please. All students are to return to their dormitories at once. I repeat, gather your belongings and return to your dormitories _immediately_. Points will be taken and detentions given to anyone lagging behind or out of bounds.”

Everyone gathered their things as quickly as they could say, “quidditch,” and went for the door back into the entry hall. Roswitha held her dragon in one hand as she helped Dean stuff the picnic blanket into her satchel with the other.

“What do you think could have happened?” Sophie asked. “Not another troll?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, no sense sending us into danger. My money’s on something’s up with the you-know-what in the you-know-where.”

As subtly as they could, which was not very subtle at all, all eyes turned toward her.

Roswitha shook her head. “They could search for any age. I have nothing to hide.”

Well, not inside of Hogwarts.

When they made it to the dorms, they pestered the twins to tell them what they knew, for the twins always knew something. The twins only shook their head though. “You don’t want to know this,” said Fred.

“Not this,” George agreed, shooing them along.

Never having seen the twins so serious before, they found a place to sit in the common room and pulled out the projects they had had out on the lawn. Roswitha filled the little dragon up with beans and sewed the last little bit of his belly closed. He flopped delightfully when she laid him down on her lap.

Around supper time, Professor McGonagall came in to announce that Professor Quirrel had left the school and would not be returning. They ate supper in the common room that night, having no further clues to what had happened.

The next day, though, Roswitha went to occlumency as normal. Even though she wouldn’t have a formal exam, she figured that Dumbledore would delight in the opportunity to quiz her on all they had discussed so far.

The stone gargoyle let her up without pause, so when Roswitha climbed up to the landing outside of Professor Dumbledore’s office, she was quite surprised to find the door open and a tall man standing in front of Professor Dumbledore’s desk, yelling at him, in French, while an elegant woman drank tea to one side of the room.

“What I cannot get my head around!” said the man, waving his arms around. “Is that you were so sure he would get to the chamber with the mirror. That the mirror might be cracked or broken or some such! But with it the stone would be destroyed! Instead, the fool poisons himself, the dark lord is nowhere to be found, and neither is the stone! I can embrace death, Albus, but I cannot go knowing that the stone could be used for ill! And do not tell me that you will find it! You cannot find the Potter girl and now you cannot find the stone!”

“Excuse me, Monsieur?” said Roswitha stepping into the office, carefully tucking away all he had said so far in a corner of her mind.

The man turned on his heel. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Roswitha curtsied to him and then to the elegant woman, who had paused in drinking her tea. “Pardon me, Monsieur Flamel, Madame Flamel, I did not mean to interrupt. My name is Roswitha Black, and I normally have occlumency lessons with Professor Dumbledore at this time.”

“Well, you will not today,” said M. Flamel, still red in the face, his voice quite hard. “Go away.”

“Nicolas!” said Professor Dumbledore. “That was quite uncalled for and very rude; Miss Black has done nothing to you.”

Here Mme Flamel spoke up, “Mademoiselle Black has interrupted and spoken out of turn -- both of those things are quite rude.” She turned to look at Roswitha, her eyes a shocking blue. “Know your place and your betters, Mademoiselle Black. We are your elders of many years, discussing matters far beyond you. Now go.”

“But --”

“Was I not clear?” Mme Flamel asked.

Roswitha felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Here was the perfect opportunity to do the right thing, and, and, and… these people were…

Professor Dumbledore sighed. “We will resume lessons next week, Miss Black. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Roswitha swallowed hard, made no bows, said no words, only turned and walked away.

In early June the Hogwarts grounds were inviting and warm, and if Roswitha ran to the lake to cry for a half hour or so, she didn’t tell anyone.

“Have you been crying, Captain?” Dean asked anyway when she came to lunch.

“Not now, please, Q,” said Roswitha shaking her head. She only had a few more weeks of school, and she could figure out what to do with the philosopher’s stone when she had a little distance from being so humiliated.

\---

Even with the mysterious end note of dark lord, poisoned fools and lost girls, the last two weeks of term went quickly. Roswitha found herself packing up everything, trying to make it fit neatly in her trunk. The only thing left for her to do was make a trip down to Hagrid’s hut with Ron. Fay had gone earlier with the other students making a quilt, but as Ron and Roswitha had their own projects, they went together.

Hagrid shed a few tears when Ron presented him with the knit afghan, and Roswitha thought he might properly cry when she gave him the dragon. “It’s a wonderful gift,” he told her. “I’ll call him Norbert after — well, best not to say, but I’ll call him Norbert.” Hagrid gave them both a hug and hurried them back off to the castle to finish packing.

That night, Roswitha rose at three in the morning all on her own, and went and sat next to the common room fireplace.

_I’m leaving tomorrow_, she told Hogwarts.

_But you will return_, said Hogwarts to her._ All students do. All blood of the school does_.

_One day, you’re going to have to stop being so obscure and tell me what that means_, said Roswitha. _But I will miss you while I am gone, as I miss Menaçant when I am gone from it_.

The castle gave no verbal reply, but instead gave something that felt like a warm pat on the shoulder, as if to say it would miss her too.

Roswitha went back to bed, and there she dreamed.

She lay in the arms of a red haired woman beneath a large oak, branches towering skyward, roots sprawled out on the ground like a million fractures of midday light. The woman hummed to her, and Roswitha felt herself grow still with the song, the stones uprooted by the roots of the tree holding her gaze while the woman began to sing, “It is the springtime of my loving, the second season I am to know. You are the sunlight in my growing…”

The woman paused and kissed Roswitha’s brow. “Oh my sweet girl, sleep well. You’ll need your strength little one. There are battles yet to be fought. I love you, my girl. I love you, my heather.”

Roswitha’s eyes snapped open, Hermione standing over her.

Hermione laughed. “Get a wriggle on, sleepy head. Of all the days to oversleep — you’ll miss the train if you’re not careful.”

Roswitha sat up, disoriented. She tried to remember her dream, but only parts of it faded in, a song on her lips. As she sat and watched her friends buzz around their room, Roswitha felt like she was missing a lot more than she knew.

**End Year One**


End file.
